An attempted gathering of coherent thinkin’- seems a tall order this evening. No shortage of whys for why that might be, regardless of the news pumped out on the video boxes we all adhere to like the faithful addicts that we are. Sensation of sight and sound in an instant, and all the subsequent surmising conspiracies that we seem so helpless to resist. As soon as something occurs of potential note or importance- the what ifs ride right up to reign supreme in the general psyche. An army of ill-conceived ideas, always in wait. The very same that none of us seem to have asked for.

But ponder on, I shall. And tragically, perhaps, always in the context of the perspective I call home. All the empathy I claim, I still know the frigid bitter truth- I never see anything independent of the lens I call my own. The prerequisite of all my experience, and maybe the situation that holds back the wider eyes I might otherwise occupy.

The sustenance for supplication is finite. And insignificant when compared to the point of view I can argue as empirically true. The one that I see. The very same I am aiming to impress upon you, whether right or wrong or some inconsequential alternative.

Was talking about self-made mythos not that long ago. I argued the justification for it. There were folks there to listen, but I would have held the stance the same were they there or were they weren’t. I argued that the mythos should be cultivated, even if not entirely correct. But being that I was thinking of myself at the time of such claims, I wonder about the universality of such proclamations.

And that is where I gave up for the evening. Or better, temporarily retired. Time passed, not idly, and another evening arrives. And so I sit, to finish this portion of this seemingly never ending self-replicating banter between all the parts of my identity. Doesn’t really matter if it’s Monday or not. Not unless you want it to.

But I think I’ll pick up on that bit about mythos. You know, the kind you make at home. The stories that comprise the foundations and alternatives of persona. Origins and tragedies. Warped perceptions and things pushed away and forgotten. The totem tales of what we claim to have gotten us here. These stories, I like, and might even be persuaded into a bit of embellishment here and there. The creation of legend from the meager bones of a single sentience interacting with all the rest, and that wild world at-large.

But looking far isn’t required to find the downfalls and desecration of soul when all our myth making goes too far.

There were some lines scratched out about delusion, in a notebook, the other day. Wondering whether I am an unknown victim of the internal conflagration of my own self-perception. In the attempt to fool everyone else, have I fooled no beast of being greater than I have swindled my own perspective of origin. You know, am I the truly mad one? And those kind of lines of thought. Brings a bit of balance back to the mythical ego dance, as long as it isn’t let to get too far.

Time has shaved away a bit of the ol’ savior complex, for which I am grateful. That, and keeping as studious as I can. Which is always less than my idealism would want. But there is no shying away from the necessaries of being, even the tragically mundane.

I see that conflict within myself. And would wager it exists outside, as well. Wants and needs, and all that.

In ways, I could see it being the source of much division within the conglomeration of the species we call societies. The rampant idealism, which exists with little regard to the logistical actualities of space and time in past and up to the current. All bathed in the righteous what should be, void of the pragmatic requirements for bringing forth such existence(s).

And the antithesis, stern in set methods for producing results. Poetically abstaining from much else aside from neutered organization of resource, both physical and meta, to the sustenance of the systems inorganic and the other kind. Unable to hold a future that isn’t a regurgitated mirror of some past that perhaps never quite was. No concept for an evolving future. And certainly, no dreams about it.

Both wrong and correct. Both insightful and ignorant. All this depending on balance and usage. A task I struggle with within myself, let alone trying to manage the applicable projected outward. Yet here I am, digitally preaching- to myself, if no other audience members show.

I think of words and deeds I’ve cast about, and dwell on the faults and failures far too easy. Or worse, get all high on the grandiose nature of my illusions. An unrelenting imagination that always seems to evade ever being totally tamed. And with age, one that more easily navigates the worse of the what ifs. The follow through on the dreamer type shit from yesteryear finds itself regularly in want of input. And emaciated from time to time, to better sustain the overall function of the meat ship that holds my Social Security number. The being I call I, and you’d call me.

Or some other identifier. Like the one used here. Or the one I sing with. Or any others that I might throw about. Fake names for the same brain and heart, just used in a different fashion. Then, of course, there are always the facades displayed under the better-known identity. The one with the job, and credit card, and mortgage. The guy on the grid has to do plenty of song and dance, just not always the entertaining sort.

The struggle between how and why, I suppose. The requirements to exist and the conviction that existing is a work worth weathering. I always seem to find a cause, even if temporary, for marching onward. And a means of execution, with what is available for summoning. I do wonder whether my desires and ambitions are but the foundation of the poison set someday to destroy me. An easier had thought with each passing year, as what is dreamt finds fewer and fewer avenues.

But the spark of certainty carries on. Just enough to convince a continued attempt to aligning ideals and actualities. Another day, at least. Or another week. Or as the impending anniversary of my arrival on the planet approaches, the thought of another year. One that will get to some place at least a little unrecognizable, if not drastically. Happened with the last go around. And the one before that. And if you compound enough of them, this whole journey seems a bit beyond prediction.

Which as it turns out, is just how I like it.