What had we gone about here last time around? I suppose it doesn’t matter much. This always ends up being the same experiment, more or less. Some blue collar existentialism spouted out by this regularly cluttered mind. All these years later, and it often feels like the question grow in quantity. But perhaps, there is at least some increase in their quality.

Was looking through some old pictures on my pocket computer earlier today. A millennial habit inspired by the finding of an old image for a friend’s solar circuit anniversary. A habit that I don’t indulge in as often, and therefore, I believe, it holds more positive potency than nostalgic toxicity.

Me and this fellow, a lifelong friend I can safely say at this time- both of us fathers and functioning members in adult society, to the amount that would be deemed necessary, and not much more. But in this picture, we were but young fools, drunk on the dreams of the future. And, maybe, also from some of the stuff in the cups we had taped to our hands. I still recall much of that evening, not knowing then what I know about it now. Ended up being one of those defining type of times, without the expression of details being required. I know it was, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.

But it got me to thinking (go figure), about whether those streams and stampedes of emotion were truer, or if the capacity to engage in such behavior was just at a higher level. Things about love and destiny and those sort of big and yet inexplicable engagement with existence. All thin and energetic, not yet understanding the dense costs associated in the life yet to come. Ask that young man of where he thought his life was meant to be going and the story would have been vastly different than the course the events ended up parading him down. Trust me, I was there. I was he. Such a beautiful idiot.

I was asked by a friend about whether, over time, had I become more of the version of myself that I’d always been, or if this person who claims my identity is nothing but a cover to conceal that true self within the masks of self-perception. The analogy used had to do with nesting dolls, if I recall correctly. There were a few beers featured in this evening, so you’ll have to forgive the potential discrepancy.

But it gave way to pondering on the more profound sort of scale. And the reflection on the past and present didn’t exactly reveal the answer forthwith. Plenty of life lived, in not all that many years. Depths of woe and mild depravity, mixed with the occasionally perfectly percolated elation. And lest with forget the adrenaline invoked experiences, and the no shortage of other human chemical based invigorations.

I honestly don’t know exactly how I answered. There was plenty of running around, being the host that evening of a musical based party. Acoustic in the art room, electric in the studio and me trying to provide a comfortable experience, mixed with some culinary exploitation. So now that the thought occurs again, I suppose I can warrant giving an answer, if not one that is indisputably direct.

I cannot deny the many shields I’ve built over all this passing time. I’ve hurt, been hurt, and so on and so forth in so many ways. Experience has jolted my sense of self on not an innumerous amount of occasions, and I don’t think that is set to end any time soon. I have modified behavior for the better, and the worse, and back and forth again a healthy, and unhealthy, share of times. The view of life, both in the micro of my own being and the macro of the residents of this planet as a whole has grown in at least a few ways that I wouldn’t think of as totally cancerous. Jaded, sure, at least a little bit. But hell, not really that bad for a single dad working class poet who still dreams of making outward artistic expression in some way, shape or form for the rest of my time in this old electric meat sack on this helplessly spinning space rock.

But despite the fake names (this Bruce fellow I write as being one of a few) and the defenses that are kept in place and modified to meet new demands- I think I can say that it is still the same soul residing here. Same as the kid with the cup in the picture from the house party. And the first grader who hosted an imaginary radio show with his best friend at the time on the bus rides home from school. Same as the young man fighting the forces crushing his ability to navigate early adulthood. Same, still, I think as the old man that I hope to some day be, excited for what little future might be left. And proud overall of the past he’s constructed, scars and scratches and all.

I could get down on myself about all that is still unaccomplished, for sure. But I don’t believe that I will. Not this evening, at least. Rather, I think I’ll think about the reflection that I get given by those who have tolerated my presence. Evidently, it is not that difficult a thing to tolerate. In fact, I’m told, that it can be something closer to inspiring. Or at least cathartic. Sure, some of these people might have been with me in my living room singing songs together until the wee hours this past Saturday, but I’ll take such biased opinions because I am certain not a one of them was lying.

And I think that because that is what this whole thing is about. The heart of it, being the occasional cliched metaphor user. But to be human is to feel, me thinks. Sometimes it is open nerve of metaphysical dread and denial of dopamine and the sort. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, or willing, or a majestic mix of the two- there comes about the great joy of being human along with other humans. Hooting, hollering, and general rambling about- just us bumping our words, ideas, minds, spirits, and occasionally bodies against each other to create the perfect friction to taste a bit of enlightenment. No moment ever the same, and within that comes the grandiose beauty of all the moments yet to experience and inconceivable to the mind presiding in the current.

Not always the easiest task, especially as aforementioned experiences accumulate and align themselves with the other residents of our past. Having seen more, I don’t always lack for a vague prediction ability. But thankfully, I seem to be able to orientate that towards the evasion of the more dumbass occurrences, while still managing to allow the openness and fluidity that is the prerequisite for the consumption for new profundity.

So, to answer your question- yes, I think I’m keeping more to being the vaster version of the same self rather than hiding behind the shells of outward projection. And I think more of us are doing that than we seem to realize. Developing, not concealing. Scarring and weathering, perhaps. But not hiding away under facades of false pretenses. Even in moments of doubt. Because doubt is the most human thing that humans do when they get to think around the ideas of self. Because it is a wild thing, just to exist. No matter how finite. And uncertainty of it all, is the most certain way that you can confirm the existence of identity.

Or so I seem to think on this particular evening. As with all of these rambles, perception is subject to change. But I’d reckon if the zoom out goes far enough, it is all some sort of the same. The ever-changing constants, and all that.