Been wondering about the desire for expression and whether it is some sort of cursed sentence for the ego crimes of my sentience. And the direct correlation of my ignorance and narcissism.

Been battling with ideas of higher purpose while attempting to maintain some sort of balance between my working man blues and housewife syndrome. Itching to fit creativity in despite its fickle nature and the limits of time available to expend on such feats. There are mounds and mountains of bureaucratic requests along with the needed upkeep and improvement of mind and body, along with the stewardship of the physical surroundings I am able to intend action towards. Never far away from the thought of falling behind. Of falling further and further from the self-prescribed destinies I’ve been making and molding.

Slowly, I’ve been working my way through works of words that are not my own. One, among the several, regarding a prominent composer around at the turn of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. A guy I personally credit for the introduction of musical emotes that I argue eventually became punk rock. A stretch of a theory, but I stand by it.

It’s not a biography, not quite. More of an analysis of mind based upon history and the words of the subject person. It’s been in my possession for years. Bought as a gift, I believe. Finally chipping away at it.

The subject is someone most folks know. A fellow who had a decaying of sensational faculty to consume the very art that was always about in his head. The very art upon which his immortality rides. Going deaf while trying to make music afflicted him immensely, as expressed by his own words. And yet, centuries later, we humans still have all the tunes he’d granted publicity. Couldn’t even hear them by the end. If you haven’t deduced the character, just know that he’s the one whose very last work performed received thunderous applause, all of which he was ignorant of from where he stood until someone told him to turn and face the crowd who’d witnessed his composition. Couldn’t believe it until he saw it himself, the clapping of every capable hand in attendance. With enthusiasm and vigor.

I don’t believe he lived much longer after that. And yet here he is, still living with us these two or so hundred years later.

There is something about the imprint of the idea of mortality when expressed in real time by its contact and consequence upon others. Through stories by or about those you know in person or have witnessed in some more public way. Perhaps even wilder than that might be the witnessing of the final bits of life drawn from a total stranger. Be it by chance, or even for some by profession, it must be a truly extreme observation. To think that your own face might be the last one seen by someone who is about to cease from seeing anything. Watching consciousness go, while you reside somewhere in midst of your own.

Bananas, as they say.

Between now and the last time we were here, I had conjured up a specter of self from ages past. Inquiry from a friend brought about the reinvestigation of a now over decade old experiment. This very one that we have here, though in February of Twenty-eleven it held a different name.

I had shared it as a point of perspective for what someone else was attempting to do, and naturally, down the rabbit hole I went myself.

It is funny how massive small problems can seem when given enough time between viewing. I was ill-equipped then to handle the many social apocalypses I have weathered since. And yet, the belief in such a self seems more resolute than much of what I conglomerate today. Part of that is a better development of modesty, which I certainly don’t want to diminish or reject. Another part is a sounder understanding of past naivety, and the forgiveness of such misdemeanors. Attempts to not hold a shameful stance towards my own past while not allowing pride to mutate into illness via the means of examining the ‘what was’ to the ‘what is now’. All while understanding that both are and always will be and must continue to co-exist with all that ‘what is yet to be’ business.

But it is a funny thing, knowing that I’ve been typing out thoughts for others to read for enough years for this thought experiment to become a teenager. The post I had sent was the first Sunday morning version of this on an old website. After reading it, I do not believe it was not the first to be born, though it was within a short span of time of the artifact shared. The first official one was likely lost on some long deleted social media account, along with a fair bit of documentation of my post-adolescence, pre-professional life. And perhaps, that is for the best. Though I’m sure I’ll be tempted to hunt that digital document down, some day. Through hard drives or old laptops I keep stowed away about my home. But that will not be a task of this evening, or any of the foreseeable near ones.

Watch me try and find it before I go to bed tonight and ruin another decent night’s sleep.

Part of me wonders whether this is all an attempt to convince myself that I should stop with all this. And each composition somehow finds its way to persuade another try. And if that’s the case, when will I finally succumb?

Don’t get me wrong, this whole stream of consciousness legacy is riddled with the occasional hiatus and irregularity. Even a rebranding or two. But it still goes on, more than thirteen years later. And I don’t predict that this will be the last.

If such things can be helped. Folks get hit by cars all the time. And the planet could spin off its axis, or some other cosmic type of conundrum. Or within the own world of my own mental residence, all this could suddenly cease to have meaning.

But I’ve seen and heard and felt enough shit that is the sort to shake folks from paths and patterns of behavior, and still I go on. A betting man would count on next week having here as a meeting place. But a gamble is a gamble, no matter how certain it might seem.