There has been a disconnect, hasn’t there? Can you feel it? Beyond just the lack of gusto these rambles have been holding, there is something that seems absent where once it at least appeared to be. Something within my own life perhaps, but also something seeming a bit more universal. Something gone even if it was never there. Something missing, though what, well, that’s part of what is driving my mind here today.

Yet we are constantly connected, allegedly, through pixelated glass and imperceptible waves and signals. Communication so abundant that all we can seem to do is squander it. Though, that could be within the design. Built into the system. A feature, not a bug.

So inebriated on input we become at least partially paralytic, unable to act or enforce action towards any step of correction or abatement. Inquisitors yet infected by impulses that feed our baser electrochemical reactions. Aimless aging dreadnaughts digesting low-dose dopamine in some faith in future sprinting while we in truth barely seem to be able to crawl. That is, if we aren’t actually stumbling backwards while our collective delirium dreams up poorly plotted postures of perceive progress, all while our reserves of wealth and ambition become feed and fodder for the very creations we granted the power over us to begin with.

Just fools, speaking truth to the falsified rulers of our own reflections.

Can you tell? I am not thrilled with the amount of time I have been spending on my stupid little pocket computer lately. The device dedicated to distraction and detraction, regardless of whatever otherwise potential might be contained within. Just hits of instant and fading gratification while the dereliction of our human duties grows evermore ubiquitous.

But even as accurate as that might be, it is still a bit too doom and gloom for my liking. And the last hope for these inherently still slightly self-serving soliloquies would be to act as further fuel for the seemingly growing apocalyptic perspectives of this current age. And it isn’t a fabrication when I work and will a bit more optimism into these every seven days perspectives.

For even if it is my ever-increasing madness that allows thus, I truly still do believe that there are options left to be taking that bushwack away from demise towards some brighter day. If not for ourselves, at least for those that will inherit this reality from us. Though, tragically, that is not the universal perspective I would hope it to be. And not something that our immediate predecessors left easy and open for us. And more difficult still, is to see the nefarious and vicious, the sycophants of injustice and the malevolent opportunists, to see those that are irreputable in selfishness and often sinister wield what appears to be a might growing in breadth and audacity.

Yet, still, I concede not.

Been thinking about stories. I suppose I always am, but the idea of tales told and still worth telling have been a top preponderance as of late. After all, what is this life but the story that we tell with our limited little existence?

And as far as stories go, mine has been anything but dull, even when I think to myself that it has been. Ripe with tragedies and triumphs, I have been weaving an existence that is at the very least atypical. So why then this feeling of emptiness always around some darkened corner?

It may have to do with the insatiability of soul. That eternal ache for more or anything that isn’t of the ordinary. And for all the horrors that aspect of human spirit has caused, there is enough to find that if not inspiring hope, is enough to keep the embers stoked through bout after bout of darkness and cold. And while I doubt the actuality of some demon’s deeds done by hands left too idle, there is something to the metaphor worth keeping in mind. Yet the problem with self-determined destinies and fates is not in their clean-cut clarity, but the opposite. Overstimulated and indulgent, we so often fail to take steps imperceptible in the present out of fear for what false futures might get denied. But maybe that’s just my commitment issues talking again.

There is a lyric coming to mind, atypical itself, that goes-

‘And ask our esteemed panel, why are we alive? And here’s how they replied- You’re what happens when two substances collide and by all accounts, you really should have died.’

Simplistic and cynical, I assure you its beauty shines less clinical when musically expressed. More so when seen performed live with an orchestra, which just so happens to be something within my recent witnessing.

But within those lines are the ponderings of very simple fact that still vexes most, if not all of this brand of sentient life we call home and kin. That we are unlikely to even be, quite possibly entirely on accident and against the better betting odds. The circumstances for us to be here now, you and I, narrator and reader, was not something that had been statistically assured. And even after the unlikely emergence of our, or really any form of life, the perpetuity of all this life and living is even less guaranteed. And the thread which this all clings to can barely been seen by unassisted eyes, while further bombardment seems to seek severance from this continued reality.

And still persistence is a word that keeps jumping to the forefront of my mind. An endurance to outlast even the most inevitable entropy and decay, no matter how insane that might be. And while exactly what to do in times such as these still eludes and evades my capture, there still isn’t enough doubt to succumb to total cynicism.

There is, after all, always something that can be done. So I ask for your help, if you would, while we try and figure out what that is. Together. Because so few stories worth telling contain but a single character. And our human cast is deep and diverse and as unwieldy as it can so often seem, this production involves all of us. Friend and foe alike. Even the monsters cannot go without there being a purpose, even if something pulled from the ashes of something otherwise destroyed.

So onward, I suppose. Through the sadness and celebrations. Through the mundane and mortifying. Through the trepidation and tumultuous confidences. For life is for the stories that make our songs. And the scenes that craft our personal cinematic expressions. And while protagonist to ourselves, it must also be acknowledged that secondary status is so often the character we play in the performances of others. And there is nothing wrong with that. And even if you end up an antagonist elsewhere, it is important to remember that is not entirely without a purpose itself.

But do your best not to be a villain, if it can be helped. And certainly refrain from seeking such a status. Just as you should be mindful of overt hero worship. In both ourselves and others. After all, whatever monstrosities we might end up as, we did all start as humans. Even the ones that abandon that altogether weren’t always that way. For the most part.