Exhausted, behind scheduled and typing away from the time I can find in the night shift. Let’s see how this goes.

              It isn’t that this battered mind is void of thoughts. The opposite, in fact. The ponderings are vast and varied, all blended in various grains with an assortment of emotions.  That, and my focus fluctuates in the times that I attempt the rambles while at work. That said, despite the weariness, it is not negativity that hovers about my skull.

              I woke upon a couch this morning, after spending the evening indulging in beverages and spinning various vinyl. A much needed reset and refilling of the spiritual vessel. And not a solo adventure, but one shared with some of the most dearly beloved souls I have gotten to know in this life. And in midst the haze and vibrations, intertwined with the silliness and sauntering to melodies and rhythms, we managed conversations on profound scales regarding much of the matters that make up sentient existence for those of us either blessed or doomed to thoughtful and creative states of being. And as I scan over scribblings of which some are entirely illegible, I shall quest to make some sort of sense of this state the evening finds me. No promises, other that my best effort whether a success or total failure.

              There is a divinity to the desire to create. And perhaps desire is the incorrect word. For those of you who know, it is often much more aligned with a duty to make even the simplest glimpse of beauty from all the chaotic abyss. And there is a pride that stirs up inside when I realize that no matter what the outcome may be, this and the similar expressive journeys I so regularly engage in are not at their essence an exercise in narcissistic need. For surely, if they were, I would have ceased to sit and indulge in these keys a long while ago. As the gratification received from this is often slight or imperceptible, and would never be nearly enough to satiate were this all some endeavor of ego. And even if the altruism of these attempts is not quite absolute, beyond my ideas of self are a realm where my intentions aim to arrive.

              I tend not to invoke the conspiracy of destiny. Firmly enough, the belief held that there isn’t some sacral higher plan to much of anything is quite resolute. That there aren’t truly things that we are meant to do, yet still, what we do can certainly hold meaning. Humbled plenty at a much younger age, the idea of inescapable and celestial purpose is not the driving force for your humble narrator. But the purpose proposed from elsewhere pales in comparison to the might of purpose we craft for ourselves. That our own benevolent ambitions better make both the individual and surrounding characters vastly more so than the acceptance and indulgence in preconceived notions of fated futures.

              That isn’t to say that everything is within our control. And no matter how tightly we grip the wheel of our lives, that doesn’t mean the wheel is actually connected to anything. Sure, that may seem contrarian to the last few dozen lines, but the distinction is important. Just as I refute the belief of determined destiny, I must also admit that our might and motive as singular creatures also lacks in an absolute nature. We are not powerless, nor are we ultimately almighty. The choices we make hold impact upon those around us in waves of diversified sizes and shapes, just as the choices of others must also influence and inflict change upon and within ourselves. Even when ignorant of consequences, what we do ripples away from our own consciousness and arrives on the shores of others. Perhaps little more than gentle tide lapping upon some gentle landing, taking eons to ever make a dent of erosion. Yet, it is certain that the often times tumultuous oceans of human beings devastate the earth of others in irreversible ways, whether intended or otherwise.

              It is true enough, and I’ve certainly said as much in this realm throughout various rambles of the past- I am meant to be a writer. But that isn’t because of some sacrosanct sentencing. It is because when I write, even in the muddled fog I find myself in at the moment, my spirit finds itself in a place of belonging within the universe. And while writing is the avenue we explore on these weekly adventures, it is far from the only purpose I plot in my march towards the future. Yet even with all these proposed positions of meaning, the space for adaptation must remain robust. That the meaning still needs to find itself in even a slight harmony with the great many necessities and navigations needed to remain a living being within some semblance of society.

              And while I could attempt to carry on, the choice now seems to me to conclude for the evening. For this, while very important, is but a portion of the deeds and demeanors that make up the person I claim as an identity. And further attempts at wringing out words in this moment would serve no one, neither I nor you, dear reader. And while the thoughts will continue, my interpretation and record making of them be put on hold until the next time we meet.