The woods I call home have seemingly burst forth again with life. Seemingly, as I know much of that life is around all year, be it in one form or another. But this is the time when all that life starts to rumble back towards prominence, be it of auditory or visual resurgence, or other means of invoking the human senses.

The symbolism is never quite lost on me, even as I have often stumbled over and squandered some of it, from year to year. Rebirth isn’t an abstract thought in these northeastern coast vernal occurrences.

I jotted some lines on paper today. Still feel as though that habit is sorely lacking in my personal practice, but at least it isn’t entirely absent, as had been in times past. Can’t say for sure about the future yet.

But anyway, he writes.

Something about the semantics of death and life. Something about the boundaries between duty and destiny. The haze that often obscures the lines of loyalty and honesty. And how decent arguments could be made about the pros and downfalls of those, or most any other dichotomy.

I’ve been led to understand that these may not be considered normal thoughts in this modern era, but I swear I cannot help but not think otherwise. And then there’s that whole correlation between thinking and being, if you dig those vibes laid down by 17^th century cats like the one who thunk that line up.

But I truly do wonder of the facets of existence, in my underutilized shaved ape brain. Whether the ponders of the many whys of sentience are instinctual or by some other design, this layman is far too underqualified to say. That being said- these ideas of point and purpose between birth and death always seem to rummage about the corridors of my mind.

The pragmatist in me seems so certain that all the inquiry is just a construct of those chunks of personality psychologists go on and on about. The parts held in my open awareness, in addition to the ones that seem to operate without my conscious consent.

The romantic knows for sure that all this wondering is weaving its way towards a more pointed destiny. Something built of glory and experience, and so on. That every success and stumble is a method of navigating the varied waves, all to gain the necessary materials for some determined and destined shore.

The part of me that mashes those halves together to get something called a self is fairly positive that neither are correct. And yet, somehow, both are in some way righteous. I could be wrong on every front, of course. But being wrong has not always caused me to halt. It often can spur me further along a route. One of the blind and blundering benefits of being part of this humanity.

I can say that these amplified in scale and scope ponderings cast a correlated wake through my emotional tides. Unstoppable grandeur for one moment, and pathetic in perspective and performance for another. Brush through with a heavy dosage of all the grey matter between the opposite ends- and you have the currents I find myself within.

I listened to one of those professional funnymen talk earlier today about the difference between depression and sadness. Not in person. It was a recording viewed from that massively powerful microcomputer I keep almost constantly tethered to my person.

He said depression is a more a pre-existing condition due to electric brain meat wiring and balance, while sadness is more of circumstantial set of standards based upon the environment in a particular space and time. And that there certainly seems to be more sadness about these days, and not least of all because of this technological connectivity that occurs so constantly it can often seem indistinguishable from a more actual existence. We compare ourselves to others and the presented interpretations of former selves more often than this species has ever truly been used to. That we replicate the solutions of our existential voids via means of simulated fantasies and ideations, which ultimately often serve to broaden the divide between us overly interconnected beasts. Talking halfway across the world instead of checking in on a neighbor, and other such overused anecdotal analogies.

It can’t all be entirely off. And I know that this constant interconnectivity has certainly sculpted my habits and mind. Plenty of which has not been in a positive portrayal. Some of it has been downright masochistic and a damn doozy to work my way out of.

Every year of my life, this species has gained methods and ways of being able to put more and more of these planetary inhabitants in potential contact, and all it seems to have done is make it harder and harder for anyone to hear each other.

And here I am, fucking blogging about it all.

Yet, I know that it is not so totally pervasive and invasive in the entirety of our conglomerated existences. At least not yet.

Not in my life, for sure.

I can manage to still get a worthwhile hug most days. Or at least a good handshake or smile. There is a regularity to how often I get to hear people I know make sonic impressions outward, in person, and all other sorts of art and expression. The sun crashed into my skin today. There were birds, as well. Going on and on about who knows what. You know, how birds often do?

They call it singing.