Been thinking of myth. My own, most egotistically, which might be defeating the very essence of the idea, but here we are anyway.

There is an idea, that I’ve been reading about, that the myth in its very origin originates from within us. Or that is where the myths end up. Or both. Forgive me, it was few dozen pages ago, and this work, though inspired and beautiful, is vast and dense in subject. You know, kinda like the cosmos and junk.

But maybe the idea that I’m getting at has to do with the comparison of myth and folklore. The scope and greater purpose served and serving. The focus and function of the stories that we tell and tell ourselves. The meaning of it all.

Or maybe that is just the curse of seeing symbols everywhere, in everything, in both their essence and antitheses.

But meaning, right? That’s what we’re after here? Or what I am attempting to get after. But maybe meaning is too small, or too after the fact. A presumptive analysis of existence that does more harm, for it limits what we might be open to otherwise.

So, this book, which is really just a transcript of a conversation held between two souls of massive intellect and emotional capability, let me quote from it. Ask me what book it is on your own time.

‘People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances within our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.’

Well, I mean, shit, right? Good goddamn, has that been hovering in my heart and mind since the words first traveled down these battered optic nerves to make its way through the rest of this processing machine I call a self.

So, I suppose I must ask myself, how has the experience of being alive been going?

Truth be told, I’ve been so wrapped up in my own woe and attempt at meaning, that until recently, I’ve been neglecting that actual experience. Too many nights choosing to stay in, feeling bad for myself as I rattle my golden chains and strike up dialogue with ghosts. Engaging in bad habits out of, what? Fear? Sorrow? Stagnation?

Maybe all three. Fear of failure, despite all the failures I’ve already made my way through. Sorrow, for what has been lost or what has never been gained. Or for the passing time that I watch fade into the horizon, while all the future approaches unseen, waiting for the right thing to smack me in the back of the head and bring my attention back forward. Which I know, intellectually, is a horrible idea. Both the lack of being front facing in life, and the belief that things just appear. Not saying that you can go out and seek anything specific, being quite sure when the mentality is too focused, things of potentially great importance get missed. Open eyes and minds in vague pursuit will be attentive enough to witness something someone else so bogged down with ideas of destiny would certainly fail to perceive.

And all of that thinking has led to stagnation. A sense of stuck that though not impossible to escape, I have been lacking, or denying, myself the tools and temperament to find the way through.

I may have already mentioned this, but I’m through with feeling stuck. No matter how many limitations have been placed, or I have placed on myself for reasons that greatly outweigh my own hopes and desires- despite all that, the urge to fight against the dying light is still very much within me. My great fool’s errand. My myth, in medias res. All high resolution, and such.

There was a line said last night, I had heard. Because I’ve been getting myself out of the house, when possible, even at times when improbable, and it has been serving me well. The hearing of this line, and the music that surrounded it proves the point, at least in this week-to-week short term.

‘Change is the only thing that you can count on.’

We are not rocks, after all, and even they go through metamorphoses, just on a longer timeline. We change constantly, as does all around us. How could it not? Even the things we know as ourselves being made up of an immeasurable amount of much, much, much smaller things, all working in cohesion and harmony to make something larger. In this case, some jackass dreamer who is holding on to ideology far longer when most others would have given up on and sought instead a life more normal, more benign. And even while the aforementioned jackass continues to hold on and out for various hopes on that sliding scale of sanity- he is changing, still.

There was another line, last night, this one read from a book the name of which escapes me now. Not necessarily something I would pick up for myself, but I am glad this other human decided to quote from it. Might never have found it otherwise. You see, staying open and such. Which leads nicely into the line, as follows:

‘Be vulnerable with yourself.’

Theres a buzz word. Maybe even a trigger, for someone like your humble narrator. Vulnerable.

Admittedly, I have trouble with this. Part of it, I have no doubt, is the conditioning both intended and otherwise in the journey of life that has brought me to the point this moment now finds us. Part of it has to do with the pain incurred from allowing myself to be such a way with others, only to have such choices cost so dearly. But the line wasn’t about being vulnerable with others, though I know that I don’t total abstain from such stances, even when burned by them.

The line was about being vulnerable with myself. And at the heart of it, at the heart of the writer whose words fall out before him- that has been my larger conundrum. The admittance to myself of what it is I am, was, and still aim to be. The understanding of limitations but neither the denial of them, nor the passive acceptance of their weight. The hopes, when unadulterated. The desires, as they exist in the cathedral of my heart. And my mind, when I allow it to operate as unfettered as possible, not being bogged down with device, vice or emotional platitudes.

Seems mad, but it’s true. The fellow who publicly journals his thoughts on a weakly basis has been having a problem with breaking down the walls within himself. The mistake of seeing vulnerability as weakness, as opposed to the unchaining of self. You know, to better get at that experience. To really feel that rapture of being alive.

It’s been an effort. A conscious one, which is tough when combating a great many unconscious beasts. Not missing the journey looking for the end, you know? And holding on to optimism with doors slamming shut and pessimism seeming the easiest route for the rest of these days. But I know that to be untrue. I could never allow myself to give up, even when I trick myself into thinking that I have.

I’ve been attempting to turn ideas of loneliness into independence. It is tough, though, as I have been independent for so long. So very long. And even when I think of the various relationships held with other beings, I know that their independence is what I respect and admire most. Even when together. Even when operating in a group, or something closer to a dichotomy. I never seek codependency, not entirely. Even when relying, confiding, or loving someone. Souls standing up on their own, even when side by side. Experiencing with, but never having the exact same experience. Even when wrought from the same moments. Even when in near perfect sync and harmony. Because that’s the thing with harmony, and what makes it so beautiful. It’s not the same note, even when it is. They are different notes that when stacked and aligned and intertwined, make something more breathtaking than either could just on their lonesome.

Don’t get me wrong, I still ache. I still grieve and hurt and break. I get paranoid and function in dysfunctional ways. I have a temper and a melancholy and a laziness about me, never far from the forefront of my mind and occasionally seeping into my behavior.

But those are important too. The dark parts. The pain. I’ll never stop missing my friend who is now gone, but I am getting better at living with it, even when only slightly. I know I’ll never be as young as I once was, but I still keep all the best parts of such youthful ideations, while having far greater access to personal wisdom and knowledge.

But building a better being is not easy. And when I am operating at my optimal, I find the prospect almost addictive. And though optimal ebbs and flows like most other things on this rock I call home, I always find my way back to it. Improved each time. More efficient for the hardship, ready for the next great mistake to break and build a better being again from that.

And of course, there are always the choices to be made. Always something you can do, right?

Water and writing go well together, just like I always thought the whiskey did. And maybe both do, but this evening, I chose water.

Well, carbonated, but you get the point. Clear and clean, as it were. Instead of something darker.