‘Tis the time of the year, again. The autumnal hues are all but spent, as this part of the Earth recedes coloration and light, and the limited shades and elongated darkness emerge forth again. Yet, it may be that within all this growing grey, the vibrancy must be found internally. A terrifying prospect, I know. But choices are not always about what we want, not exactly. More often than not, it is simply a matter of what the next best move might be.

And for I, for us, this evening, this stage is ours. For better, indifferent or worse- here we are.

Pattern seeking beast that I most certainly am, seasonal changes invoke and allow for a movement of thought. The hope is another step towards maturation, but I am humble enough, at least now, to admit that vanity strikes so often in these moments. I think of myself, and my life, and what that means and has meant. And within these reflections, the inkling to wonder about the future is always near, if not ever present.

But there is a bit of cyclic stirring going on, and so I stumble through these ruts and habits to find something, maybe anything, that will progress this story in a way worthy of going forward. Still, I am older than when these rambling became habitual, by a good stretch now. And there is a trepidation that all this is but a futile attempt at remaining juvenile. The fear of fading fascination mixed with lingering contempt for what is, coalescing to create what may just be unredeemable redundancy.

But it might not be all that. Or, it could possibly be so much more.

A comparison occurred to me, today. Maybe it has occurred before, but my recollection seems to think it more on the unique side.

The difference between change and growth.

On the surface, they can seem to mean much the same idea, but I would argue against that. Not only would I argue it, I am about to.

Within this daydreamt ideological dichotomy, the concept of change seems to imply not only a permanence, but something foundationally altering. That with change, there is not only an omission but removal of the original. Scrapped away to present a seemingly new canvas upon which fresh images could be cast. That the alterations are not additional, but subtractive on first invocation, and anything that was there before must be banished in perpetuity to make space for that which has never been.

Being honest, I hold great disdain for such a concept. Even with all that which I know has been left behind and lost in my life, the idea that the past must be purged in its entirety for the new to stake its claim I find extremely disagreeable. Additionally, it would seem to be that change in such a way is utterly impossible from the human perspective. Even the things we bury deep and repress, they still were, and so in a way, they are always part of us, whether we realize it or not, by choice or involuntarily.

Now, growth. This one I like.

Such a concept as this is additive in its very nature. That without the foundation of self, any accumulation or aspiration would fail, if not in inception, then soon thereafter. That even the ashes of aspects of our former seeming selves are necessary for the introduction of magnification of being. And it might be so required that the state of our past and present must be altered, but even within that, what was can never really be gotten rid of. And that without transmutation nothing else might ever be, but it is only an alteration of form to better fit the additions. A place for the contemporary to exist requires at least a hint of permanence upon some aspect of personal history.

Though, this could all just be some other self-contrived coping mechanism. Confusing a deferment of demise, as opposed to the drive of some self-determined destination.

Yet, as very flawed and faulted as I might be, there is an essence that I wish greatly to retain, or at least keep around on retainer. And in this journey, the understanding that betterment must be sought, and fought for from a stance that is unmistakably home to who we are.

It could be that all this introspection is but a deflection of thought from the outward. These times seem troubled, and I can nary find a soul that thinks otherwise, even if the content of the trouble could vary from perspective to perspective. We live among a plethora of personality cults, both the obvious and less apparent kinds alike. And feelings of deep lacking appear abound, even when inexplicable, among all the excess noise and superficial abundance, in all sorts of realms.

And this overcast of fear, both substantial and paranoid. So much of it, it so regularly seems, in all sorts of angles and attributed blame. Yet all this terror might end up being is that ancient concept of the other, personally, culturally, and so on. Yet, plenty of it has to be real enough, in this world devolving from its blip of global peace, whether you adore or abhor it.

Maybe all this macro thinking I get myself involved with is but a distraction from all my desperate and demented micro thoughts. Grandiose mediations to avoid the kind of ideas that haunt the hidden and dusty recesses of my consciousness. And while that may very well be true, I find it to be paramount to combat and coerce mentalities both large and miniscule to better serve the story of myself, and anyone else that might find benefit there.

So, I fight, even when in contradictory appearing ways. Fighting my cynicism while not remaining and succumbing to yesterday’s naivety. Even while so often unable to heed any wisdom from within my own words, no matter how valid they might seem.

And I ponder, both what to do with this life, and what to do about this world, and this species of mine now in uncharted territories- and within all this noise, I choose, again, and again, the written word. Not clipped or compressed down to sizes so digestible that they pass through the mind without much provocation or reflection. I’d rather choke on grand ideas than go about puttering about in quiet desperation. For this, both this weekly bout of rambling and this life of mine as a whole, both writ large and obscured- this is not some ploy for marketability. That’s the sort of thinking that gets us into these messes to begin with. And I aim not to monetize or over socialize with this, clearly. I don’t even use my real name here, perhaps as a contrived ego-defense, placing this almost comedically thin veil hoping to allow the attempt at some otherwise unattainable truth.

There is another one of those irresistible and incomprehensible ideas. The truth. And the thing is, I believe, that an idea such as truth is always out of reach. Even when seemingly present, it always remains at least slightly inexplicable. Yet we seek it so perpetually, whether we realize it or not. The ultimate carrot at the end of this universal stick. Or shtick. That the truth is everything and nothing eventually becomes synonymous, whatever effort are made to the otherwise. That it all amounts to so much, until it doesn’t. And from that, the human spirit finds its space to engage, experiment and indulge with the experience, making whatever it will, whether passed along or not, for as long as it can, which cannot be forever, as nothing ever is.

A friend sent me a poem today. Potent and heavy and human, in profound and tragic ways. It spoke of that so human desire, despite it’s impossibility, to undo what has been done, and to take back what has been lost. The final image was of watching fallen leaves return to the trees from which they fell. Impossible, I know, yet so easy to desire.

And there is something to that so very human desire for the unattainable. For a return to grace, the kind that might never have been to begin with. The very sapien ache for that which can never be, and boy, am I and how I have always been ripe with that. Perhaps now, more than ever.

Yet, I know, all the great and glorious things I’ve ever done and been and seen and felt- they all occurred on this quest for totality that can never be achieved. And that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?