Wondering, I suppose, about how much of our fate is self-fulfilling. Whether predetermination is beyond our control, or just another ploy our mind makes of the world in varying degrees of after-the-fact. Can greatness or despair, or whatever- can it be conjured or is it simply cast upon us, each of we individuals an insignificantly seeming cog in some otherwise indifferent wheel? Ever proceeding in the pace set preceding from existential origin to the ultimate destination of demise?

Or maybe my dopamine and such is all out of whack.

I had almost forgotten the metaphysical valley that follows the peak of live performance. The post-gig woes and mental wanderings. It had been quite a while, so perhaps my recollections of this reeling reality had been pushed aside, or hidden away, exchanging themselves for some stability associated with ordinance more ordinary.

Or maybe I am just avoiding the confrontation with a whole slew of sad anniversaries. Or really, just one big one.

So, indulge me, if you will, while I hash out another bout of thinkings, while dodging so many of the thoughts that constantly resonate throughout my head, as of late.

Perhaps I lack in wickedness, and that is the secret success of my failures. That empathy and a range of emotions invoke the entropy of my being. That were selfishness more supreme, I would then attain some much more of the otherwise fantastical in this reality. And as that thought ferments within me, the realization rapidly encroaches- that were that to be, some other person in entirety would have to occupy this organic vessel currently housing my consciousness.

That is not to say some divine and spotless entity is sitting down writing the elegant dogshit you are currently consuming. In the metrics of the religious morality of my forebearers, I am most certainly a sinner. Unforgivable? Nay, at the moment, as even my self-deprecation cannot pull me quite to that extreme. But this ledger of my life is at the very least stained with tears, if not some blood, as well. The less egregious in no way fatal type, but hurts are my responsibility to claim, all the same.

Yet, even with all this self-inflicted downtrodden-ness, there is a bit of joy that stains these hands of mine. Singing and laughing and carrying on. You know, that generally benevolent pissing away of time that abides by the inquisition towards meaningful living. Being the hinge point of a night of live music is not a deed I take lightly, lest I forsake the perspective that my favorite ghost would hold of me, when the life I miss so very much was still his for living. A soul gone from this plane for almost an entire trip around our star now.

But I said I was going to avoid thinking about that, as one of the aforementioned untenable agendas of the evening. It’s just that it’s always there, and will always be there, as long as I am here. And staying around for a good while longer is still very much within my plans. You know, if anything I plan has any impact on this reality to begin with.

One of the books I am dawdling through sets itself on a quest of figuring what this whole creativity business is about. That essential and enduring impulse through all of the many human millennia, instinctually instilled upon initiation into this world- our desire to consume and create art, in all her virtuous and vicious forms.

According to this book, the general psychoanalytical understanding of creativity is a ‘regression in the service of ego’. And while the author goes on to present arguments against such a stance, I found myself tangled within that idea. And surely, an idea plaguing your humble narrator far before reading those words upon some other’s page. And while there are a few definitions depending on the discipline regarding the word ‘ego’, they all dance around the same idea of self, and sometimes even rhyme quite nicely.

So, do I dare say art is some selfish endeavor and denies not only ourselves, but our contemporaries and descendants, of some otherwise negotiable nirvana within all this oblivion? No, I suppose not. Never being much of an extremist, I still understand, or believe to understand, that the quest of passion(s), is an essential effort for the progress of the species, lest we otherwise fall back into the mud and ooze, or any other primordial metaphor you’d like.

So, this inexplicable divinity continues to persuade my heart and mind to continue in the adventure. To express and attempt understanding of the inquests and expressions that provoke my attention and emotion. From drawings on the insides of ancient caves to priceless pieces hung about the walls of artistic mausoleums, the yearning does not seem to relent on the countless souls arrived and gone before me. And while so much superficiality continues to count itself among the genuine attempts in pursuit of conquest and commerce- the articles lacking in artificiality always seem to cut through the veils of haze associated with impulse and entertainment. For I have heard the songs sung by the senselessly hopeless, more beautiful they are than any dollar devouring defunct dirigible that floats above the general consciousness of our times claiming authenticity it has no right to claim, even when abhorrent audacity seems to arouse conviction otherwise.

A fine line, we bards and artists dance, between nourishing negligent notoriety, and a more noble intrigue into the never-ending nuptials of the human spirit and the nagging of wondering why and crying out into the abyss for these unanswerable questions. Yet, dance on, I feel I must. And sing, and shout. And write. For while there is life within, outwardly I will always attempt to vindicate myself against the impending demise of purpose.

There was a line said, that I’ll never forget. It is almost a year old, now, lingering about in the perceivable permanence of this pre-frontal cortex and other associated cerebral and such meat collections. I’ve likely even written them out somewhere here before. I didn’t know they were the words of a dying man, but they very much were. They are currently written on the wall to my immediate left, in a room so often shared with that soul.

‘Do you want to play music? You don’t have to, but it’d be better if you did.’

There I go again, thinking about the thinking I thought I’d be avoiding. I am nothing if not predictable, though.

Maybe it is all for the sake of the song. The story.

And who am I, to decided that’s wrong?