Been scratching out words in a notebook throughout the day. I have no idea if these have any cohesion, other than all originating from my cerebral cesspool. I’m just going to type them all out, with no context, as I cannot seem to conjure another way to begin this evening.

So, here goes-

‘Perhaps, it is the impossibility of satisfaction. Never being happy enough.

I wonder what clarity of mind sans adrenaline must feel like.

In midst an existential and emotional hangover for days, weeks, maybe even years.

Wondering how such damaged goods could think himself magnificent, vomiting up some clever lines while the world, metaphorical, and in some places kinda literally, burns.

Far beyond my blue-collar assumptions.

Intelligent only to the layman, and only in so many ways. The autodidact polymath dreamt up, little more than some escapist hobby obsessive, doomed to imagine metrics of accomplishment outside of gold and status.

Attempting to delineate between ambition and desire.

Thinking of things missed, missing, whether there were ever any real chances or not. Perhaps just the kindness of strangers mistaken for possibilities.

There are only so many pumps to a heart, and I have spent many of mine on nothingness.

Am I so self-centric that I cannot even conceive the harm cast upon others? Or so selfless that I am ignorant to the harm thrown upon myself?

Been thinking about discipline. Mediation, and treatment of mind and body, and such.’

And.

That is where that ends.

So, you know, that despite my awareness that this day contains the evening for writing, none of those thoughts stray from the themes that regularly weave in and out and around my consciousness. They have as long as I’ve been thinking, which is a few decades now. Even as a child, I’d wonder about big questions that many around me ignored. Or, at least pretended to. There are plenty of folks who have such thoughts never occur spontaneously in such a way. Or even ever occur at all.

But there are plenty of folks who can understand such scattered massive thinkings. And plenty of them that you wouldn’t expect. And as an expert at drawing such meditations out from folks, I’ve seen it happen in some of the least expected places, or persons, rather. Just give me a kitchen table and chairs, a late evening hour, or maybe even an early morning, perhaps some whiskey and you can watch as the conversation unfolds more philosophical than perhaps anticipated.

My gift, or, maybe my curse. It changes from day to day, hour to minute, etc.

So, anyways, I suppose I’ll get to the attempt of making sense of any of this. A futile effort, I know. But by this point, I’m addicted. And out of all the bad habits I have, for which there is no shortage, this one might be the only one that utters a more genuine relief forth, albeit ever so fleeting. We all have our kinks, after all.

I always aim to get at something here, despite all the rambling. An itch, that this somehow almost scratches. Never relieves, but that might be part of my overall unconscious design. That lack of satisfaction. That infernal eternal yearning, my empty howl at some celestial body that isn’t even aware of my existence. And if aware, cares not.

And while always falling short, I keep returning. Is that insatiability what I confuse for drive? Or is it an honest motivation? More so than any other caliber of success?

So, aiming to get at what, then?

Answers, would be the vague boiler plate response. What else would so many questions hope to concoct? But the answers to what? These questions listed above? I can get plenty of the answers for those easily enough, if keeping it non-specific and obtusely personal. It’s funny, you know, because two words could do it all. Just watch.

Why?

Because.

Obviously, I am not oblivious to how cyclic that could, and certainly does end up being. Chicken and the egg sort of affair. Why is any person, place, thing or occurrence the way it is? Because that is just how it is.

Now, if that doesn’t leave you as unsatisfied as a jilted lover, I don’t know what will.

But it’s the specifics that eat away at it all. That it is I, in this flesh and in this present. With a swelling past of prominence and all that forgotten, it is the point of identity that brings the unrelenting inquiry. But that could be summed up simply enough, as well.

Why me?

Because, who else?

At my more egotistical (not how I’m feeling at the moment), I fantasize that something written here will have some seismic impact beyond myself. That within these weekly ramblings, undone can be all the strife and quandary of all my fellow modern humans. That some utopic idea will emerge, and do some messiah business in the minds and hearts of any who might cast their gaze upon these words.

What a bloated asshole, am I right?

In less ego driven moments, such as this evening, I know this to be an exercise in outward thinking with the reward of instant catharsis, and a desire for attention both specific and vague. Look at me, thinking out loud for all to ignore!

There was a quote I dug up earlier that I believe I’ll play with now. Inspired by my daughter reading a biography of this man, a famous writer that all have heard of, even if never reading a word he’d written. One of the favorite writers of my favorite writer, so my undeserved kinship is blatant and rampant. Thinking of this long dead fellow as some sort of ancestor, boldly assuming my worth in literary lineage.

The quote, as follows-

‘The fear of death follows from a fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.’

So, is it life I fear?

Honesty compels me to say no. As I have and continue to keep living all this life, a life, as far as my personal identity, that is never short of fulfilling attempts. Failures, sure, and woe enough regarding them- but ever onward. Even when motivation runs thin, there is no quit about. Even in a certainty of hopelessness, each day, as they occur, I live and live, and, live. Dangerous, sure, from time to time and occasionally for altruistic causes. But the reach forward is and has been perpetuated throughout my existence. Grasping ahead, even at that which may be entirely and so assuredly out of hand. Ideas and places and people that any logical mind could see so clearly outpace your humble narrator- and still, out goes the existential arm, swinging for the slightest chance to palpate a taste of that light.

Wishing for death has never been my game, no matter how aware of its lurking presence I very much am. Not personally, just generally. It sits in wait, and its timing cannot easily be refuted. If it even can at all, which I am sure it cannot. Even when unjust and vicious, death wins when she chooses, though I’d doubt she’d ever think of it in such simple terms of human competitiveness.

But we went on about her enough last week. Death, meaning.

I think I’ll wrap all this nonsense up by instead pondering life.

     Perhaps my most continuous bad habit, I must confess my total dependency on living. And in ways that are bold, even when idiotic. In ways that are persistent, even when exhausted and desperate. In ways that are good, even when my lesser instincts would incite me to be more conniving and conspiring. I will always melt for a good tune, sung well. Always laugh when humor finds me, even in the most inappropriate of settings, or especially so. There isn’t a beautiful sunset in my vision that will escape without my wordless contemplation. I aim to cherish each embrace and regard in regency the people that wind their way within my own existence. And from them, I shall always steal the good they have to offer and make it part of mine. A fair exchange, as I regular give what there is of me to those others both deserving or not.

     But I won’t go about failing here any longer. Meaning the evening, in this format. I’ll probably rope together a few more failures before the night retires me. Then fail again some more come morning. You know, poetry and song and sentience and such.

     But since this has been a quote infested evening, I’ll grant another. From the in-between penman, as I so audaciously see it, between the other fellow quoted and myself. My favorite writer, who if you know me at all, you likely know who that is.

     ‘We have to be continually jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.’

     So, deep breath. Off we go.