I think of the webs we weave, interpersonally, whether intending to or not. And how those connections are molded by what is done or what is said, or the proper lack of the right or wrong word or action. I think of my own failures. Of my own cowardice in the face of making resolution and the sort. It doesn’t even take that far of a look back to find my own faults and how they impact the people intertwined within my own existence.

I have been, not irregularly, an ass. And as much as I would intend that to never be the way again, I know any certainty of that would be a lie. The attempt at honest will always be flawed unless one truly knows themselves. And as much charm as your narrator might try and set forth, I know that I am still quite far from knowing my own true self.

So, apologies for that.

There is also a great struggle that resides within me regarding the positive reflections cast upon I by others. This, of course, might be due in massive part to the savior complex I always seem to have a hard time shaking. Everything being my fault as an extension of the fact that I still strangely believe that anything I attempt to do, can in fact, be done. Empirically, I know this is false. But this home grown Christ complex of a man who grew to adulthood between the atomic and information ages, is a potent one. This land of milk and honey feeding to gluttony the unbridled optimism of individuality.

Perhaps in a century or two some social science historian type might be able to categorize this to a larger affliction of mass cultural hysteria based upon the evolutionary biological development of the species and the influx of technological advantage/impairment occurring simultaneously over a few potent human generations. If there are even such careers left in a few hundred years. We could be kaput as a branch of the animal kingdom by then. And if it happens after I die, it won’t really be a matter I could consider dealing with.

There might be times when all that big picture, zooming out ideation of the whole of human existence is causing nothing but damage to the connections I hold tangible in this space and time. In fact, I know that it does. I have documented memories of it happening within days of today. Regretting an act or behavior because the selfishness inside could not coincide with what someone else at the very least felt they needed from me. Word fallen from my head that struck beyond sour in someone that I know I hold in greater care and consideration. Can’t get them back. Ever onward in the timeline.

I had asked at a party if anyone had any spare space or time. Not a one of them did. A few even checked their pockets.

I got metaphor’d by a friend, recently. We were hungover. An endearing claim, that I’ve pondered on and off since. The metaphor, not the hangover.

He said I was a lighthouse. He knew this because, he said, that he had been one himself, in some time now passed.

The point is about being a beacon for passing ships. The ships are people in this one. Human language, something, eh?

A person point of safety and guidance for those that might be lost far from land. And, I suppose, I cannot necessarily deny that. Multiple sources have confirmed the status of this metaphor to the corresponding individual. You would be hard-pressed to challenge the validity.

Watch me try anyway.

On terms of continuing the symbolic representation that started us here- a lighthouse cannot be lost at sea himself, me thinks. There might be an appearance, an illusion of certainty in the standing I hold on this earth, but I implore you understand that I cannot claim that as the case. The fight occurs every day to understand the whys of any and everything and no explanation seems to satiate me long enough. At best, I can come to terms until I rest up enough energy to challenge it again. Even the motives that drive my day to day fall forth from comparison when I extend out a timeline far enough on either side. Either in memory or self-composed prophecy of what will come to be, my purposes of now do not align with other times. Someday, the ones that need me, will not. And if I am still around for such a time, what then would I do with such an existence as this?

I don’t know if I can call myself a lighthouse. But I know that I occasionally share some experiences with some other freaks, since the circus has closed down. Maybe the better metaphor would be the massive tent of red and white. Or the man with the tall hat, hollering out to the crowd.