I suppose there is always the wonder why I end up here. Week after week, year after year. The urge to return to a blank page and pour out some sort of semblance of thought in a manner of at least mild literary aesthetic. At this point, a habit I seem unable to go on without, possibly in perpetuity. Or at least as long as the flesh and neurons will permit me to go, which as far as I can tell, will not be indefinitely, no matter how far off in the future my demise might be.

Attention, tragically perhaps, is certainly another motivator. That may be the source of why I ever put any sort of creative anything outward. There is a need to make these entrances in various forms of ‘art’ or ‘expression’, that much I am sure of. But why I would then ever bother to spew any of this out to where it might be seen by any number (usually a low number) of souls, may reside in something more basic. Humans crave attention, and despite my façade of something seemingly more super- a human is all I seem to be. A within that state of being, I itch to be seen. To be heard. To be experienced by others.

Or this may all be an attempt at solving that ever-present and non-specific why. The answer to the question that is never quite clear. The desire to know and be known, to myself and any others that might be struck with interest. Or that from trying and prying and chipping away at the great big quandaries, some simple clarity might emerge and with it the understanding of the sentient experience I am marching through.

There have been times where these would be directed towards a specific audience member, despite any others that might be out there consuming. Historically, almost always a woman. But as of late, the form of internal battle breaking outward is the narrative route taken. Picking apart the conflicts I go between, each day within my own skull. In theory, it should be something that if not gaining ground on the indisputable and inexplicable questions, should at least provide solace and peace in the likely ultimate state of never truly understanding. Though in practice, the self-righteous pose can make these little more than some sort of primal pandering.

Might as well be howling at the moon.

I thought, today, about being lost even within my own generation. In a more positive light, this might mean my hopes and ideas are of a more timeless pedigree. But in the otherwise cast shadows by the rest of the world, it may only mean that I am forever missing out. Or worse, left behind. A feeling had many a-time in my life, stemming certainly before any shaped adulthood. After all, in school, while everyone else was listening to pop-punk and emo, I had my R.E.M. and Queen CDs to fill the service space of my Walkman.

But beyond the adolescent woes of being different, I know my life is not catered for and calculated like so many of my peers, near and far. And I do not wish to begrudge my many responsibilities, as so many of them have helped to raise the intellectual explorations that have led to a tremendous amount of philosophical freedom that I regularly reside within. My atypical path, by modern standards, has certainly allowed me perspectives outside of the realms of normality. Not that I had all that much of the normal stuff to begin with.

But ideas of self-worth are so often impinged on so much beyond the very ideas of self and worth. They often arise from perceptions both within and outward. Or lack thereof either way.

I know I have tendencies towards a harsher self-critique, and though that is not something that exists as a total evil- overboard is sometimes an understatement for the condition I find my reflected perspective. Only need to probably go as far as last week’s entry to see how much of a jackass I can often believe myself to be. Whether logically justified or not.

Thankfully, I have enough reliable outside influence to help conjure a defense against such depreciation of self.

So, anyway.

Sat in the yard last night, with a friend, watching some fragments that used to be part of living trees decay away in heat and flame. Chemically changed, never to return as once was. Only a dust that shall serve only as a basis for something new to grow.

We talked about a great many things. Of course, always dancing about the greatest hits of life, love and purpose. Mixed with a healthy dose of nonsense.

But we talked about words, and our mutual, though different admiration of them. Dialogue, in particular, as is oft to happen with a fellow who regularly quotes movies lines, even if to no one aside from himself.

I had mentioned how I used to enjoy writing out those sorts of imaginary conversations. Something not done, as of late, in this current world of soliloquy I seem to be wading through in this and other mediums.

But even within those conceived fictions of person-to-person interaction, I confessed that it all stems from something real. Or at least as real as a memory can ever muster. Inflation and adjustment of exchanges experienced firsthand. Which seems to me to be the best way to achieve potency. Makes it all matter when the words get dreamt together. Gives it the heart enough for me to wish to recreate, which hopefully translates into enough heart to make some other identity feel any sort of way about whatever I end up writing. Short stories about love and loss and all that. They come from experiences I’ve had, or those shared with me by others that managed to hold enough impact to last long within my mind. Had and heard of enough tragedies and the sort to get a few heart wrenching tales. And enough of the sweeter stuff to make a few of those other sort of stories, as well. And space still, and basis enough to wrangle up a few or a great many more in the future.

But for all the high-quality dialogue I am sure I have engaged in, I know my foot is never that far from my mouth. You may have even experienced this yourself. Your humble narrator here, saying something stupid, or too loud, or wrong. Or unable to say anything of substance at all. Failing to conjure the words that might spark interest or the like. Or something off putting enough to create a vast difference, where once there seemed to be none. Words have come from my mouth and mind that have hurt others, of this I am sure. They have also inspired hope, both false and genuine, whatever the intention. And they have stood about the air, meaning nothing much at all. If only I always knew the right thing to say.

That being said, I am not a total conversationalist failure. I know, even in opportunities unexpected, I have carried on in talks that seemed at least as near to flawless as us human beings can get. Crafted the words, even in the living moments, in as much of the right way as any other being might perceive. Asked the correct questions to get to the next step. Timed the right jokes, to maintain interest. And left the right dosage of silence, as can often be vital to the good sort of conversating. Maybe you’ve seen, or rather, heard that in-person. Or maybe you’ve seen me trundle about in all the opposite of flawless mutterings and mental dictations. You could even be among the lucky few who have gotten to see both, in varying degrees and denominations.

  I suppose I’m feeling more confident this week, at least of this Monday evening. I am sure that it will fluctuate. It always has and it is only reasonable to assume it always will. But not knowing what the morning might bring is one of the thrills that can keep us beasts going. So onward we go, into the future. You are welcome to join me, if that’s something you might be into.