There were a few attempts at starting this earlier. Some hand-scratched cynicism scrawled out yesterday. And a much more optimistic approach, not a few hours ago. Both abandoned, at least for now. If their merits were worthwhile as far as thinkings go, I trust they shall reemerge. We shall just have to wade through and see.

It feels right though, starting again upon a blank page, now that the castle has turned itself into these empty halls again. As the rain patters down, turning the snow into some in-between state on its way back to muck. The very same that the universal origin story subscribed to by my forebearers claims the first man was formed from. Primordial and eventually pompous, the setting for all of humanity to happen since, and all that is still left to come.

But I do not intend to ramble on about any myths, other than the ones I craft myself, about the very self that seems to be crafting them, were he capable of the free will he so very hopes to be in command of. A bold assumption, in this otherwise indifferent world.

I must confess, I’ve been digging inwardly. Again. Ideas of internal reinvestment, of self-worth, etc. Of the path thus far gone down, and the wonder of what still lies ahead, in terms as short as tomorrow, or as far-flung as centuries after my demise, whenever that ends up being. Quite a while, I’d hope. Being that I do very much like life, even in all its trials and troubles.

I think of all the mistakes, both recent and further back in personal history. All points of past both so far away and still immediately conjured, depending on their perceived prominence. Some so fresh, that wounds still bleed in between lickings. And others, so ancient, that they almost seem unreal. Self-made fables, strewn together from the actions of your humble narrator and all the cast of characters he has and continues to interact with. The scars and blemishes that make up the only mythos I currently keep in my mind. Meaning my own. The character so vast, I’ll spend a lifetime fleshing it all out. And perhaps never get closer to the whole so craved than the day the cognition was capable enough to start sculpting it.

I might have been in a bit of a spiral, not twenty-four hours ago. Though certainly, mostly unnoticed outside my own skull. Though I’m sure not entirely. Not that such a status is all that foreign throughout this particular timeline. Filled with something akin to worry, about that which has been lost and what might still be gained. About the difference between word and action, and the potency of each when well enough placed. Of purpose, if there is such a thing, and how that contrasts with the basis of my desires and what contrived or true natures inspire them.

Then, within seconds, all melted away. Wonder turns on a dime to practicality and awareness, as is professionally required in my line of work, if you aim to be any kind of good at such a weighty vocation. I don’t talk about what I do for a living here, and I don’t aim to make any exception to such a standard this evening. Just know, that when it gets real, it is one of the most actual acts human beings can find themselves walking within. And when it is difficult, it is harder than what most people ever encounter in a lifetime, no matter what they might claim to the otherwise.

And strangely enough, even within the ideas and facts of palpable danger- I am grateful. Because just like that, one minute to another, the perspective changes. The woes wondered about fading to a state of survival. But something beyond that, as well. Something grand and terrifying. And true. The curse of tedium cast aside, to make room for nothing but action and calculated thought behind each, when such things can be afforded. And a regular test of might and character, not just the discussion of such lofty thoughts from the safety of abstraction.

So, after such a reminder, not one irregularly occurring, of this man’s fight against nature, boiled down to a simple dichotomy of life and death- I think of where we might go from here.

Chaos, I think, we might discuss. And her antithesis, of course, being order.

There have been countless human hours dedicated for millennia to these ideas, with claimants on either side stating that their perspective is the truth. But that is more of that black and white thinking that you must know by now that I actively proclaim disproval of. Mainly in the idea that such opposing dualities cannot exist without the other, and never in such a permanent and static state. And were you to ask me, a hopelessly tragic way of being. To think that existence is either this or that with no budging in either way to be gotten at seems to be ignorant, immature and surely lacking the types of curiosity that we exclaim as virtues of the youthful spirit so many of us romanticize as we age. To go one way is to live in total abstinence of existential experience. While the other direction claims a fullness that would never allow any kind of movement at all, not even enough to be able to step back and observe all this universal going on to begin with.

No, I say. And boldly claim that instead we not only survive within, but the best of us go on to thrive in the management of ourselves in body and mind within the chaos of aforementioned selves, our societies and our natural world at varying larger scales. And that the pursuit of such sameness, day to day to day, is a tragedy, though I doubt that those who wish such perspectives upon themselves are capable of even perceiving such a loss concocted from varying degrees of self-denial.

I adore the unpredictabilities of life, even the ones that attempt to break a soul, such as your narrator’s. Though I have found myself capable of bearing the heaviest sorts of loads a spirit can metaphysically handle, I carry onward. Even at the dusk of my days as a young man, I stand sure that I have handled all that has been thrown at me, even if some of those things are still currently in the process of being dealt with and digested, with the energy converted into something more useful, if not at least slightly self-serving. And I know that those very tribulations have molded a stronger, more resilient person out all this muck from whence I arrived.

And that plays into those ideas of self-worth, and although that is not a struggle I claim to have entirely overcome- my regularly tested perspective reveals the merit of the identity I call home. The pressures so constantly pressed upon my being might be enough to break a great many others, but I, perhaps mildly psychotically, find them as the cleanest burning fuel my spirit can combust. And the addiction to rising against each challenge feeds the empirical nature of all that I desire. Despite there being so much I live without, and some of those themes I am prepared to live without in perpetuity. Though never quite giving up, lest I fall into those black and white classifications I so adamantly abhor.

I claim no patron sainthood. The missteps and incorrect actions that have occurred have certainly impacted those around me, in sometimes vastly negative ways. But I am very rarely unaware of them and am as apologetic as I am capable of being, which is often a tremendous amount. And if you read this and feel that I have not done so as far as your own personal regard, I’ll state it quite clearly now- I apologize. I don’t expect forgiveness without earning it, as I also don’t expect that of those who wronged me. Even though I am of a very forgiving disposition, I also know that my memory can often last longer than I’d otherwise wish it to. Forgive, sure, plenty- but forget? No. Even if I were capable, I would still never wish to be. Lest I make the same mistakes in the same exact manner. What a dull existence that would be, the same successes and failures, again and again, day after day, stretching a whole lifetime long.

But that is but a part of the ideology that makes up the person clicking and clacking away at you now. Because vengeful, even justified, is not who I am, not in the unadulterated form. There is so much give that I have left in this identity, even when the meter may be temporarily reduced. And although I may feel depleted at the moment, I know this will not last.

For it is out there, in life, in the shared and singular experiences of we poor sentient souls that the magic exists. It is the common root shared between tears and laughter. Of hopelessness and inspiration. Of love and hate, to grant a singular cliché in this evening’s ramble.  

Not knowing what tomorrow brings, let alone the next hour, minute or second- that is fulfillment I seek. And not because it is anything to ever truly grasp, but because it is always something to be continually sought, as long as the biological hardware and software lasts. And even in stability, I crave diversity. Of thought, of heart, of experience. I couldn’t have claimed an age ago how I’d feel today in any sort of meaningful specifics. Nor would I ever want to. Even if this is all pre-determined (an idea I personally reject) not knowing what is still beyond the horizon instills the inspiration for a continued life worth living. Even when destitute. Even when lost and afraid and alone. Perhaps especially so, at such junctures.