It is all a struggle for understanding, I suppose. And one that may always be doomed to fail. For each step we get towards knowing any aspect of existence better, from each resolution emerges a further seismic wave of questioning. Perhaps not an entirely universal hardship, as I know there are those even among those that I know that the wonder never occurs to them. A simplicity that I do not envy, which is helpful enough, as it is not a simplicity that I imagine my own cerebral efforts would ever allow me.

But thought, although constantly occurring, even in the unwaking moments of my own consciousness- it often seems to only drive this sentience further away from anything resembling an answer. Unbounding inquiry, ever pervasive and persuasive and the makings of this regular ramble, among other work and duties as I choose, or inescapably assign to myself. But a mind that churns inexhaustibly can make for such a separating state of introspection, a place I never find myself marching very far from, and maybe only in some cyclic geometry with only the illusion of movement towards being anywhere else.

But between the worlds of isolation and comradery, I attempt to find some space. Trying to neither seek or overly engage with these ever-present tragedies. And though the human heart seems to be breaking almost ubiquitously, I trust that I’ve gathered enough wisdom to not let the downfalls and existential fracases go to waste. Though, I may not hold enough wisdom yet, or ever, to witness any abundance of alternative methods of being. You know, life is suffering, and so on, etc.

Yet, in these times of masochistically cynical news cycles and naysayers both ancient and modern, with all the false product salesmen in between- the fight for hope and light has not yet lost in my eyes. Not yet, at least.

So, here I sit in midst this pondering project now approaching a decade and a half in the making, wondering still what it is I feel so compelled to say. All while wondering how many wounds this ‘pen’ has inflicted, even when never intending too. And how much damage there is still left to do until I reach anything even acquainting itself with satiation. I suspect, and possibly fear, that such a place will never be attained, not within this singular lifetime I have been granted, or cursed with. But within that, it is not the fear of death that provokes me towards more, but rather the trepidation of a life squandered. That precious resource of time spent idly or on some sensations not deserving of their places. And conversely, I sometimes fear this is all some obsession that my living would do better without. In the pursuit of an idea, I have left myself void of all the possible others.

Might be a condition of this time of year, the snow, long nights, and such. Might be a condition of this past year, in time, all funeral anniversaries and such. The unavoidable reflection in the aesthetic of desolation associated with this particular season in passing. Looking back in the dead of winter, in the idea of some destruction of self. Ideologically, hindsight is a dangerous bedfellow, but one I can never entirely resist. But as with poor Mrs. Lot, turn me to salt, you bastards. I’ll always occasionally look back on my personal waves of destruction. In the hopes that at least future disasters at least learn enough from what was to be unique in their new arrivals as the future grants us. Fool me once, fool me twice, we won’t get fooled again.

But battling between belief and certainty continues on. The latter always appearing as some sort of horrid absolute. Being certain is a paralytic, a stagnation of soul and self, resulting in a metaphysical coma or death of person. To be certain is to be doomed to an ignorance that can never truly be, not in this ever-changing world moving through time in this expanding universe.

Belief is something else. Sure, it might be the precursor to certainty, but when well maintained with reins of decent strength and flexibility, belief can be the portal to the consumption of a wider world, a method to better digest this massive whole of human experience. Not commanded, nor inconsolable, but always at least slightly influenced by the surrounding realities as the dance about and whirl us through life. Belief is not necessarily wavering, but it is also not meant to be so specific and unchanging as to never contain the ability for adaptation, both miniscule and monumental.

So, if I cannot, or will not, say that I am certain of anything, I suppose you might be asking, dear reader- what is it that your humble narrator believes?

Well, I believe in good, when kept vague. It is no guarantee, that is for sure, and doesn’t look quite the same to everyone- but I believe that even we simple shaved apes are capable of not only allowing, but even encouraging good not only for ourselves, but for those surrounding us. From the bar stool one over to the most of the surface of this sphere we call home, I believe that we can make better of what we have, even if it means paying into some difficulties upfront. That even when it hurts, we can make choices that will leave us better off, both internally and externally. For ourselves and for others.

Someone sent me some lines from a book today. A series of words that in their head provoked the thought of your narrator enough to send them along. From these words, a few have been standing out.

‘To distill the messiness of human life.’

I suppose that’s what I keep attempting to do here. Because it is a mess, this life of a human, if you’re living it in any kind of depth. And it hurts, a lot. Even when no one explicitly desires it so, it hurts. We are failing beings, in a regular and almost constant devastation. Mountains of mistakes and missteps mark the talk and tidings of the tales we tell ourselves and each other with our respective existences. Horrors can occur, even with the best of intentions.

But from all this mess emerges the beauty. The kind of aesthetics and emotions that invoke the vicious and vivid feeling that only we can feel, as far as the universe we’ve observed has thus far revealed. That the potency of pain makes way for the sublimation of elation. That the breaking of our hearts makes the space for the immersion of new energies, ideas and emotes. That our scars define the divinity of our hearts and minds. That our wounds make us better able to wield the benevolent weapons of life.

Or something like that.

I have to leave now, to discuss such ideas with a friend. That and he just finished a book that encompasses such ideas and so much more. A tale that turned these eyes of mine to weeping wells of uncontrollable tears. A potent sensation that I am glad to have had, even though it hurt so very much. So, we’ll see what he says about it, After all, he was the one who got me to read the thing in the first place. Funny enough, how I managed to finish it before him. But different lives mean different times for all sorts of things.