Wondering what to ponder, as this day fades to night.

Thinking about the path of cognition on the wayward march towards entropy. And whether empathy has a regenerative ability, or if the supply is finite, no matter how vast. Might be it could take some folks more than one lifetime use it up, but perhaps even the massive care some of us have will always eventually run out. And I wonder whether interest and attention and desire operate on similar constructs. A metered amount per soul, and once exceed, nothing but void left in the place where once there was heart, etc.

And I’m wondering about those dishes in the sink.

And if that should have been gotten at before strolling over here to engage in mostly self-centered word vomit. Though I suppose all speech and associated expression must be somewhat self-centered, at least at the origin. Except maybe the folks who speak in tongues, and such. You know the kind. Usually at religious gigs and the sort. Perhaps with snakes involved, or something. You can see videos of them. Maybe that stuff comes from somewhere else and expresses itself through some human entity possessed.

Could be. But I don’t think so.

But I’ve decided the dishes will wait until we finish here. Hopefully this doesn’t take too long. I’m off to work in the morning and I should regain the energy for that.

Terrifying times these are, they say. Or so I hear tell. Not much of one for the television these days. Too much time on the interwebs, for sure. And it is generally agreed upon that such behavior is not conducive to the optimal human performance and function.

But one doesn’t have to go far in this western world to hear of all the impending doom about. And though that is a tale as old as humankind itself, if not older, there does seem to be something particularly existential about the era we are in the midst of. But that might just be perspective bias. A feeling of self-importance projected upon the very age in which I have found myself living. I try and discern between the actualities of this moment in what will soon be history and my own indulgence in self-perceived prominence. A bad habit of mine, that I always seem short of shaking.

     We pattern seeking beasts, are we the origins of these forms so viewed as universal? And if so, is it our duty or privilege to break those forms asunder?

     I tend to get more nostalgic when more mentally and physically drained. Some sort of ideological safety blanket, perhaps. To coddle and console what might otherwise be seen as a helplessness in the agency regarding my specific timeline. Moments long dead, dancing about my mind so full of life. Reanimated into more perfect seeming forms than ever attained while actually occurring. Crafting stories of the what should be or should have been, while actively disregarding the what is still to come.

     I was told, not that long ago in conversation, that I seemed to be a person of belief. I agreed with the statement. Not a belief of any specific religion or cult or the sort, but of a belief that resides without all that, within the sanctity of my own identity.

     And of belief I am, though even I am not always privy to the specifics. Vague things like love, for sure. And though the romantic aspect so regularly escapes me, and I’m sure a few of us others, there are other derivations of the idea that ring true. Parental, I know for sure. And friendship is a well-worn path. But I think of the big sort of love. The general type applied to the fellow members of my species, as a whole. A branch of the affectionate idea that is the most commonly, if not constantly berated and reduced. Hard to love those you don’t know, especially in days when it seems that the opposite perspective reigns and easier supreme. In a world where bombs still blow-up folks who have never invoked such harm. Some entirely innocent aside from the fact they happened to exist where disagreement lingers about in deadly doses.

     Hate and its relatives sure seem in abundance, or so is told. Often times by the profiteers of such diametric perspectives. Don’t change that dial, we just need to sell you something between the panic and paranoia. We might just offer an escape from the powerlessness, as long as you hold the sufficient purchasing power.

     But among the many or few things I claim as sustained belief, powerlessness is not a regular player. I believe, despite the appearance of the occasional mounting evidence, that there is always something that can be done. No matter how infinitesimal, there is always at least one action of remedy for almost any given situation. Even if that means finding the most comfortable way to perish, in any sort of impending moment. Certainly, I used to seem more easily certain of all that, but still somehow always never unsure. Demise does come for one and all- but up until such a time, there is always a force to fight or fidget enough to make relief.

     Hell, I’m still delusional enough to believe in the changing tide sort of mightiness resides in at least a few of us. Not into the idea of saviors and that sort, but certainly about the mindset that through effort, and the right management of that luck stuff, that individuals can still make impact on the waves of our future histography. I’d even go as far to say that a truly determined effort can overcome most anything in one way or another. The key lies in adaptability, while still blending in the resolute retention of stances more stoic. Knowing when to flow and when to stand more unwavering. Which is something I’d imagine is always learned on a curve. And one best informed by what might be called failures.

     I owe an old teacher a letter. Been almost five years now. I suppose I’m afraid of being a disappointment. Something maybe not entirely unlearned from younger days. One of those nostalgia bits involving him arrived in my mind earlier today. Small corner office, that could have been knocked down for all I know. But then it was a place very much alive and intertwined with my dreams of destiny or purpose. Right around the end of my academic career.

     From behind a desk, after removing his glasses, he said that never had a student held such realistic promise for making impact and change as he had seen in me. He was not an ingenuine man. Certainly not with me, but he might have been incapable of most kinds of dishonesty, whether it served him well or not.

     Perhaps it is the toxic thought that I have fucked my life up beyond repair, but I fear the return letter. Connecting my ambitions of ages past to his well-being. Some twisted sense of empathy, perhaps.

     But ultimately irrelevant. Because this life of mine is far from beyond repair. And every mistake has only expanded the tapestry of existence, in every which dimension that the human mind can comprehend and imagine. And whatever wavering might be going on from time to time, it has never led total faulter.  

     So, I suppose I’ll manage the time for that letter. My handwriting is pathetically illegible, so it will take more drafting and time than this hour or so expulsion. Plus, I’d like to have another complete project to show off, if this old professor happens to ask. Got one close enough, if I just keep on it with enough unrigid discipline.

     But that will do for now, for this. Other things must be got at before retiring until tomorrow. If this spinning rock is going to give us all one more go around, I mean to take it. And the next one after that, if I can still manage. And so on. Until one of these meters that keeps me going runs dry, if such an occurrence will ever end up happening.