I’ll confess to you now, dear reader, this has been looming over my consciousness with something akin to dread. Whatever scribbling I’ve had seemed to fall short, yet here I arrive at the mouth of this cave yet again. Unprepared for the beast I must now face.

Or, of course, I could be the monster in all of this, about to face my just demise. We’ll just have to take the next step forward and find out for ourselves, won’t we?

It is a serious goal to keep this as layman’s philosophy and prevent the transformation of whatever this is into some sort of outward psychoanalysis that no one, myself included, even entertained the idea of asking for.

But, I suppose, some aspects of both must reside in one another. If there were no emotional connection to this life, then why would be bother wondering why? And they say, generally, that peace with life must come from somewhere within, and boy I tell ya, my within has been a wreck. Emotional shortcomings in abundance and spectacularly displayed, if you find plane crashes to be spectacular. Though, I suppose awareness must be one of the first steps. And the funny, or tragic, thing is that those first steps must be constantly taken if you are growing as person at all. Which I very much aim to be. A growing person. Especially since the other option is simply decay.

But let’s get vague, a bit. Get off the idea of self as a singular and back to self as a concept, something applied more broadly across this conscious species of ours.

There are, of course, at least partial answers for many of the wonders of the human mind and spirit. Things about our internal chemicals, and how we alter them with actions, intentions, and sometimes, whiskey. And that depending on the hardware and software you are set up with, with a good many congruencies throughout each of us, that you then must work within that framework to achieve whatever means you might mean to end up at. Certain things make us wax or wane this way and that, some within our total control, and a great many others far beyond our grasp, no matter how narcissistic you might be.

Trust me, I’m an expert.

And of course, there are still those great many inexplicables of life. Drives and desires that cannot be so simply met. Some creatures within not so easily fed or satiated. As I see it, this is where ideas of art and expression come in. There are other concepts that could be applied, but as far as what exists inside my universe at this moment of space and time, art is my best working option.

So, easy, right? Problem solved. Just art it up there, fella. Win over your woes with pretty words and songs and dance. Easy peasy.

I do hope that made you laugh. I smiled while writing it.  

As anyone who ever attempted some form of self-expression in a creative feat can tell you, as I’m sure you can tell yourself if you’re the type reading this- the making of art can seem so necessary while simultaneously seeming utterly impossible. But if you’re like me, even a little bit, you’ve got to keep trying. Especially when impossible.

I found a strip of paper cleaning my car today. Its original home was in one of those lovely culturally appropriated American standard after meal treats. You know the ones, with the sometimes ridiculous bouts of wisdom alleged to be contained in a few lines on a piece of paper not two inches long. With the lucky numbers on the back and such.

So, this piece of paper tells me, he says-

‘A dream will always triumph over reality, once it is given a chance.’

Now, is that an endorsement of blatant insanity by rejecting the very concepts of what is real and possible? Maybe. Is it vague, kinda dogshit gimmick advice meant as cheap entertainment? Almost certainly.

But some of those words are not. And I don’t know what the fuck else to write about right now, so fortune cookie it is. So, anyway.

     Dreams, both the visions of the unconscious mind and the sort that exist in the waking heart, those are very potent to me. But are they real? Or can these things even be made into reality. I suppose it would help to never grip too tightly on the idea of what reality might end up being. A lesson that although I have learned many times before, I never seem to tire of learning again, and again. And again. In varying and explosive ways, sometimes. For better or for that other way, as well.

     Chance. That’s another one of those words that we can play with the meaning of. Usually used conjoined with the term ‘taking’ or ‘giving’. Something to be seized or granted, in a singular moment or might be lost forever. But there is more to chance than that. There is a patience that can be implied, though not always with every occasion. And the idea of lost chances must be brought to consideration. Sometimes things get gone and gone they go for good. Something I would advise against, if the chances matter to you.

     And of course, the dreaded idea associated with our very existence. Reality. Physical, spiritual, etc. All the varieties. The very concrete, or sometimes diluted, facts of what is and what is not. A very human thing, to struggle with these, me thinks. If you do not struggle with certain aspects of the ‘real’, then are you even living? What a dull existence that would be.

     But there must be acceptance of certain realities, lest we all go mad and society collapses and we all fall into species wide disarray. Who then would make our precious television programs?

     Not claiming that acceptance of anything is an easy task. It is work, and it is often work of constant consideration. Every day. Every. Single. Day. But it is the efforts that continue to lead to a life worth living. If you were to ask me. Which you didn’t, but you don’t get a say here.

     But anyway, what the hell do I know?

     Been trying to keep myself young. Maybe because in so many ways I feel that I never really got to be. Which is only true in some ways, and not others. In a great many ways, I keep myself youthful perpetually. In mind and heart, while of course, not allowing that to turn into juvenile behavior. A confessed occasional failure of mine.

     And maybe it is working, even if far from effortless. Keeping curious helps keep me creative. And just plain old interested in life. And better maintaining the ol’ electric meat spaceship helps along the way. I, myself, am over two stone lighter on my thirty-fourth birthday than I was on my twenty-fourth. Little things, helping to manage the constant chaos. Which, don’t get me wrong, there is plenty of that. Inside and out. Has the world gone mad? Am I going mad? Are we all losing our collective shit in all sorts of new and unique ways?

     Most certainly. But also, we’ve always been a species that looks towards the edges. Dangerous, but possibly holding the greatest rewards, even when not the one that you might have been looking for. That is how you find some of the best parts of life, when you aren’t looking for them. That, and when you allow the changes to occur without a constant rigidity of self-righteous determination. Again, easier said than done. And also, something that cannot be done all the time. You must, on occasion, stand fast. For beliefs, for honor, for duty, etc. For love, and shit. Which, gross.

The occasional bout of Knights of the Round Table type shit.

I say all of this, of course, as a man of constant failure. And in ways that have hurt and impacted others. Not a proud claim, but one I wouldn’t dare deny. I do what I can to make amends, when amends can be made. As the quest for truth goes on and on. And on.

And this is part of that, for your humble narrator. I sat down, this Monday evening, uncertain if this serves either myself or anyone else in any way that is benevolent or constructive. By the end, I am reminded that the words are all part of it. For I, at least.

And I’ve come out of these bouts with great positivity only to be devastated literal moments after. Fact. Can confirm. And I’ve dived into anger and regret and negativity only to feel my words trite and unjustified. And some weeks, it is all I can do to string a thought together, and am left with a resounding dissatisfaction afterwards that only time and no action can make fade away.

But I was told once, in another lifetime, by someone while they were breaking my heart, that I was meant to be a writer.

But perhaps she was being kind. I’ve confused that before. I mean whomst amongst hasn’t, right?

Yet, I trust in my heart that she was not lying. But the writer is only part of it. Only a section of the whole of who I am. Multifaceted and occasionally chaotic, I’ll keep trying to do more good than harm. And fess up when I am the source of any damage.

And I’ll keep indulging in the good parts of this life, of this soul. While trying, and occasionally failing, sometimes extraordinarily, to not indulge in the bad. Sometimes it’s big things, like don’t get drunk on a Wednesday. Sometimes it’s a collection of the smaller ones. Like, I’ve been taking my camera out again, instead of relying on the ol’ pocket problem box. Especially when I can be the one being the problem with that damn thing. And the camera still makes for the better picture, anyway.

As always, I do hope there was something in this for you. I’d hate to be so selfish all the time. It happens. Along with the aching, breaking, shaking. Like humans do.