I want this all to hit harder. Make it hurt. Put the heart back into it. Or the guts. Or the balls, to use a term of the damned patriarchy.

More than want, I think. It seems a need by now. How could it not? The sensation of the struggle, igniting a never-ending march towards either progress or entropy. Or both, perhaps. Some long sought out performance, always just beyond grasp, no matter the distances gone through and by. I’m not talking masochism, though whomst amongst us, you know, from time to time?

Nothing like a nice welling of emotion to keep the spirit’s battle sharpness at the ready. Need not be as far as fighting back a bout of tears, though it certainly could be. Could just be letting something within that genus of emotes let go, when there seems nothing else left to do. Processing what can be processed, and just letting all that on the periphery of some span of control be as there would appear no other way for it to be. Even if that means being ever out of control.

Then, get on with the rest of it.

You know, for a time, there was a seething conviction residing within me. Might be the pinnacle of unrelented ego, but so sure was I that changing the world in some way was inevitably in my future. Full stop. So damn certain of it, without an inkling as to how such a deed might even get about being done. An idea infecting martyrs and dictators alike, if they don’t grow out of it. Or die trying.

And the wild thing, at least to me, is that feeling has not truly gone. Grow and altered both inside and outward, yet still the belief exists that not only might I be capable of some larger than my own life impact, but that there is a sense of duty involved with me going about and figuring out the way that might be conjured into existence. Having emphasized the empathy aspect a bit more over the ego has allowed such a feat to seem not of the roots of aggrandizement and glory, but as some sort of service to those around and set to come after me. Can’t say I can do much about the past, unless I’m forgetting something. Absentmindedness, ever abound.

Madness, likely- but that’s part of the reason I ever end up here to begin with. Or a great many other places that always seem to be worth the effort of experience. And I know there still reigns enough life left inside to manage my obligations while simultaneously burning with that heavy existential fervor that lies at the source of all these creative aches I continuously house. A matter of wrangling the right inspirations, I suppose. I don’t know that I believe motivation is so scarce as the cynics like to lend, myself at times included in that population. It could just be that it just harder fought for, no matter how abundant. Could be the curse of these here times, or just the curse of the current point within my own timeline. Either way, I am set to stubbornly bleed the stone of expressiveness, no matter, or often in direct insubordination of the impossibilities about.

So much of it does come down to the idea of connection. Or the right or wrong kinds of disconnect. Both within the confines of my own identity, and out there in the wider world, with folks interacting person to person, to these rambles cast out into the technological abyss, no matter how lightly consumed. The first points of effective sentient connectivity begins from the singular perspectives from which we all experience the rest. Knowledge of the self, and the extraction of essence from the well of faults and talents. Knowing of a temper, and how to best avoid or invoke it. The stimuli that promote joy, or terror, or the great, big, old sad we humans love to hate to love.

I am aware enough of my faults, though my mastery of them is far from complete, if it ever will be. And even though rounds get lost here and there, which can be seen through this series of mental diarrhea diagrams spouted out each week, among other endeavors- I don’t succumb to those negatives, certainly not like I used to, and never in totality. The step is to better utilize those woes, and the like, to stir some sort of deeper expression that the superficial personal philosophies always fall short of attaining. Manifesting positivity, as it were, I can only see as eventually working to mask the locked door to disappointment. Building and bellowing until the façade can no longer cast the ignorance over it all.

Easier said than done, but all in some realm of my ability. Anger getting the best of me, seems a good time to exert physical energy. Waves of sadness approaching, be they nostalgic or more current- best be picking up something with tuned strings. Or at the very least a pen and nearest available parchment. I’m usually prepared with a place to scratch out ideas, but the romance of a barroom napkin is still not lost on me.

It is then, once the balance understanding within reaches some sort of equilibrium equivalent, that the better connections made outside one’s own skull start to feed in a more cyclic, if not symbiotic sort of manner. And that is far from saying that such a balance is permanent. It is much too alive for all that. Especially when you’re out there, living here on Earth. But there are moments to be caught, and within those the establishment outside interdependence gets formed. Another level of balancing act on its own, interaction between one soul to another, but when played right, there is a decent chance of some sort of fusion being at least temporarily established. Or an equal and opposite mode of fission. Honest reflections made between beasts that show one another in light and vantages deemed improbable, if not impossible, to the eyes we set from inside.

These too, I have fucked up. Those relationships between this soul and some others out there. And some of the damaged ones are no fault of my own yet pay for them I shall. Some I claim the entirety of blame. Some beyond repair, some lost forever. Or others becoming something else entirely, separate from the initial or the imagined. But the paramount sort of folks tend to stay around, at least as long as their organics will allow. And those that don’t, well we seem to be getting along okay anyway, regardless of their presence. Or ours in theirs, life, meaning.

 I don’t imagine that much of the world will be changed after all that rambling, but this evening typing away was not on my bingo card for cataclysmic change. Just a maintenance procedure that has thankfully shifted from the ideas of demise back towards that of creation.

Besides, it could be, that unbeknownst to myself, the efforts to be made by this singular and tiny life, have already been set in motion. Were that to be the case, I think I have an idea where that might be going down. Not to put pressure on the spawn. She does have fourth grade to get through first. But if that is my role of destiny, as I am sure it at least partly is, assistance is the best gift I can deploy. And shall, with patience and attention, as best can be mustered.  

That being said, I think I’ll still take a few more stabs at that course of human history business myself. Nowhere near done on that front, and plenty more vitality left in that tank than my pessimism likes to convince me of. But for now, fare-the-well. I have some fellow humans about to arrive. I think I’ll spend the rest of the evening feeding off their minds. Might serve up some replenishment of spirit, but theirs and mine.

They arrived before I got much of a chance to proofread, but you should know by now, this isn’t a program for the puritans among us.