The attempt at this from the evening last passed was tossed away. Didn’t even bother to look at it. The whole thing stunk of my thematic redundancies, the sort I pathetically resort to when there is nothing much of substance to say.

All absent-minded technique. No heart at all.

That is not an apology. Just an explanation of the initiation that eventually guided us here. A day late, surely still exhausted and feeling a bit like a mid-sized mound of canine excrement- this still feels more aligned with the proper venture of soul that struck this specific path off so many eons ago. The same conjuring of spirit that weaves my existence with a collection of other expressive endeavors that my sentience seems unable to escape. Not that I ever believe I mean to try such methods of flight. Addicted to the outward exhaust of my creative ambitions, as it were.

But at least three days from a full night’s sleep in my own bed has got my body on the more ragged and rundown side. And the seemingly never-ceasing intrusion of bureaucratic demands can often keep the old electric skull meat from ever pondering in ways that I would claim to be truly free. But I shall think of these things as weights. In a positive sense. For training and building strength, as opposed to some sort of chain made for confining. Some overdue rest should realign the organization of energy required to keep marching on these self-made paths of mine.

I had been pondering that, though. This addiction to my own sense of ambition. And the ideas of success that seem to drive this here jackass, as though it were the most desirable of carrots. Some might see such claims of dependency as a bit harsh, but I see no fault in a sense of awareness that agrees with my own status of being at least a little ways off from being some sort of stoic monk. I am far too funny for that, after all.

But ambition and success are these intertwined ideas, and despite the many outward influences of culture and society and all that outside stuff- they are rather personal perspectives to hold. In this very life I call my own, I know this to be true. I have since adolescence and regularly throughout my ‘adulthood’, there have been no shortage of peers who could easily claim my accomplishments and deeds are for certain signs of some universal success. And not to diminish the factuality of their claims- but I will always find a way to disagree.

Perhaps it has to do with my ideas of success being an end point. For all of my conscious life that I can currently recall, I haven’t really ever considered there being any place or platitude for stopping. Just one conquest to the next. On and on and on, for as long as I can manage. And I mean to be managing all that for plenty of time yet to come. Even as I near a decade in a career that is generally considered a vocation made to satisfy a lifetime, I cannot help but ponder what will reside beyond. With all that life I feel is my right left to live. And all that creative hooting and hollering I plan to consume it with.

I should more often take stock. For modesty’s sake, and reassurance otherwise that with time, all that more I’ve been dreaming of still holds the possibility of arriving. In about three and a third decades, plenty has been said and done and sought after. And even the failures are grand and not without their poetry. And all my sins, though varying in might and size they might be throughout this timeline, are not conceived in malcontent, just something more like ignorance or oblivion. Despite my prattling and ego-based sense of the contrary- I am but a man. Flesh doomed to rot, and a soul that goes to who the fuck knows? Maybe some paradise (of which I have my doubts). Or perhaps to some metaphysical recycling plant, to be broken down and reused like so many other old machines. Or perhaps just back into the abyss from whence it seemingly all came, mattering little or nothing to any perspective far enough removed from my own.

Fret not, dear reader. For all the egomania that might be displayed is always self-regulated with at least an equal and opposing force of regular self-deprecation. If you’ve been with me long enough, this is surely something of which you are aware. And though the theater is not (currently) an active part of my state of being, I fear not the playing of pro or antagonist towards my own existence. Trust me. I have on more than one occasion referred to my own reflection as both a handsome devil, and a rotten piece of shit- in various forms on several occasion. Might even have a bit of both this very evening, before I eventually collapse for some overdue reinvigoration of my fleshy spaceship.

I am glad I did not attempt to force this act last evening. It would have failed in beyond my own perspective, in addition to. This all happened in a much more natural way. But certainly, being home after an exhausting several days at my place of occupation, full of a few hundred miles of regular commuting, always helps these attempts along. Try as though I might, and even knowing that I have in the past, I cannot seem to muster the words for this when on the clock. At least not at this juncture of life. And that is no crime, at least as I see it now. As I don’t claim it a crime to be writing something at least partially titled ‘Monday’ on a Tuesday.

After all, time, if not totally an illusion, seems to at the very least be molded by the perception of the perceiver. With this particular one being satisfied with the amount necessary to fulfill this thousand of so word excursion. Took less time to actually write than to brood over, but I think I’m perfectly fine with that.

For today. For this week. I might contradict every bit of this come next week. You’ll have to tune in to find out. Next time, on Grown Millennial Man Publicly Doing What Amounts To Little More Than Having A Digital Diary.

Or as called now, these Monday Evening Thoughts.

(Dates, times and ponderings may vary).