Attempted to transcribe the ink and paper fiber scratchings plotted out on the evening before this one that is about to occur. The one written out on Monday, as it were. Being that is now the day after. Got a certain amount of the way through until frustration struck in a mildly blinding fury.

Forgive me, my mind is a bit weary. A few days of activity void of the sufficient amount of sleep will do that. This morning, Tuesday, this here narrator has been up since well before dawn. A professional cost to be paid, to collect my professional pay. But all that made the words I drummed up on a few notebook pages seem incompatible with the emoting and ideas I am attempting to prescribe here, in what might be called the current.

When read back these many hours later, the words all seemed to be some crap about squandering time, failing on multiple fronts of attempted accomplishment, unfulfilled ideas of young love and a letter written on the inside cover of a book of lies. Sentences that seemed to sing hours ago seem unworthy of mention in these present moments.

So, I’ve decided to shoot from the cuff, or off-the-hip, or whatever the saying is. Been awake nearly since evening last, so despite the exhaustion, it still fits the imagined theme. And that associated discipline to which I try to claim adherence.

Though, I suppose there were a few bits from all that chicken scratch that might be of a philosophical use. So, explore them, we shall.

One of the ponders regarded the ambition to be a mostly autodidact polymath in this life of mine. Contrasted, as always, with the reality that it is blue collar labor for which the sustenance of my life is earned. And within that duality, the regular occurance of attempted new projections of the acts of the creative varieties, whilst those which began longer ago breathe softer and softer. While others rested in a more complete stillness- just collecting dust as the age of their conception or initiation has long since passed. They cease or at least seem to cease, somehow still assured under the pretenses that may very well be falsities self-proclaimed as truths- that I shall return to them all someday and bring about some mediocre glory.

It’s a habit that I always profess to myself that something must be done about, at times even out loud to no one but myself. Yet here I am, with tasks all around me to be met, and still this now delayed ambition takes priority over most other things.

Somehow, I believe the spirit of all this resides in the necessity of what this regular outward bout with inner thoughts has become. Well, become again, really, as it has done on and off for this past decade and a half. Each iteration somehow the same, yet always different. As though it were some long-winded run-away paragraph. And yet this writing is needed. For the decompression and amplification and attunement of the mind. And not for all you adoring fans. All the less than a dozen of you. This selfish task of little notoriety that grants me no prominence or gains in wealth or glory- it manages to do more than any of the aforementioned possibilities could. It feeds the soul while simultaneously grants the minimum required steam release to prevent mental explosion.

Yet despite its true identity and nature, I still aim to achieve some potency or prominence within each of these habitual rambles.

We are idea beings, after all. Or so we regularly believe. Not claiming that they’ve all been great ones, let alone even being good, thus far. Plenty of these things we come up with are as deficient as dogshit. Or worse. Some are tragic or monstrosities, for sure. Particularly if you appear on television or run for political office. And I certainly wouldn’t claim that we are slated for better ideas just because I’d like them to be happening. It’s not an easy argument to make, these days.

But within all that, there is something that one with few words at their disposal might call divine. The very curiosity that has certainly led to doom for no shortage of members, or groups of members, of our particular species for the last few hundred thousand years has allowed on more than one occasion for innovation to arise, or something perhaps ever more towards the pinnacle of inspiration we might be capable of. Even if to just show the wrong way towards something, in the hope that no repetition will occur.

And lucky us, to live in an age where access to the ideas, stories and documents of the last few thousand years are more or less readily available, in something we can only see as close to instantaneous.

     An age that seems so beyond our capacity to fully process while still knowing that if there are generations still come for a few rounds after us- this all might appear so small and easy to solve. An age that to our future looking back might seem as simple to process for them as cave paintings seem to us. Which if thunk about long enough often leads to the feeling of being overwhelmed in this modern age. Tiny, simple, weak beings, etc.

Our world un-shelving itself from methods of the last hundred or so years (or perhaps even the last millennium). Changes making the history books since as far as I can recall. So often portrayed with far too much of the amped up unnecessary while lacking the substance required. And rarely leading with the proposal of the next great rational societal idea or meaning or movement. Just all seems more damning of the now. As so often portrayed in the short-term limits associated with the current average human lifespan. Which is very short compared to trees, rocks and stars. Inconceivably so.

And yet, I still feel this too shall pass. Not on its own, but in a way that our behaviors and empathy can guide into reverie. In fact, I’d say we are obligated to solve at least some of the problems of our current times, if possible. Not saying that there won’t be unperceived damage done along the way. Clumsy, curious apes that we are. But there is always something to be done towards that perhaps unachievable brighter benevolence type vibe. Be it to accept your place in the machine of things and do the best with what you’ve got at your disposal. Or, to rage, perhaps insanely, against the tide of otherwise accepted madness.

Apologies. Not sure that any of what my remaining few active braincells of the day were able to churn out is worth a metaphysical piss. But the old heart tells me it was vastly important that the push occurs. To make room for the next thing to be gotten at. Might even wrap something up to something resembling a conclusion. Though maybe not tonight.

I don’t even have the reserves of energy to read this bloated excursion of words back again. Out it goes. Blemishes, scars and all.