It keeps going, with or without us. Even if this still lush and vibrant world, all verdant and aqua and squandered as home, becomes nothing but a desolate and irradiated husk of a planet- it will keep going with elegant indifference. No matter the action or perspective taken- time, she carries on.

And were I not so attached to this identity and existence of mine, the notion could even be a freeing one. But alas, ego death has yet to occur within your humble narrator. With how he often is, the identity demise might not occur until the whole unit succumbs to deterioration and decay.

Thankfully, despite the vast swaths of narcissistic tendencies- plenty of empathetic ability, somehow, remains. Battered and tested, trial after tribulation after tournament of pessimistic occurrences, the grasp on a desire for good greater than my own self and selfishness holds fast. Perhaps others might have resigned such quests long ago, and my unseating may be just around the bend, still yet and if or until then, I ache and wring from my own meaning about what one simple enough soul can do.

That may be part of the issue. It is certainly the folly of current personality cults at the heart of global polis play- the idea that singular selves are the masters of vast domains and decision-making apparatus. A fallacy, for sure, as even if under thumb, it is all the others about that do the doing. The lights don’t turn on because of some vain politician. Even a dictator needs folks at whom they can do some dictating at, otherwise the madman speaks but to their shadow. But it seems so much, as of late, that we forget such truths- forgotten even among the labor educated masses that make the whole having the lights on business a reality.

And yet, here I sit, bound and bouncing about my own skull about what it is that I can do to dent the impending darkness that seems to surround our collective and existential horizons. How’s that kettle? Said the pot.

The difference, or so I believe in this moment of ponderance, has to do with a dichotomy present upon the impact of the individual upon the masses. Is it intimidation, or is it inspiration?

In this age of constant and addictive access to what was once sellable as a free exchange space, the intimidation factor is abundant to the point of absurdity. Perpetually barraged by superficial gratifications and pervasive promotions of insecurities- the modern human lives with a hum of images both static and dynamic that plunder and pervert our very brain chemistry. Desire and dread and the feeling of deficiencies so easily, and by design, dement almost every aspect of our day to day, day after day. Battery operated blight churns beside us in our sleep and nary a bowel movement gets made without that vicious little screen starting back as the sacral parts of soul get stolen and replaced with benign abatement.

Of course, the irony of such statements as you likely read these words from one such demonic device, is not lost on me.

But there is a difference, if this is, to use that damned word, content you are currently consuming. And forget my total lack of profiteering from these ventures, as I play with a method of expressive medium I can’t help but see as potentially dying, tragically- but the intention and hope with heaving out these statements and stanzas each week has not to do with pillaging your time. From the center of my sentience and spirit, these rambles are set to oppose intimidation with that other bit of the aforementioned dichotomy. For while some part of this is always for myself, that is not that desire that draws us back here each week.

When the wondering and pondering eventually leads to the place it always does and I think about what it is that can be done to cease abiding by the tide humanity seems so doomed to dirge down, a word arrives quickly to mind.

Inspiration.

He paused, for a moment, and stood. Step after step, bare feet upon the faded sunlight cast upon the floor, he walked. Over to the window and talked it out of being so closed. And so, cool, late vernal air invaded the space, along with the songs of winged creatures as they bid farewell to another day. Trusting, hopeful, that another day might emerge again from the other side of the coming darkness.

Because perhaps now more than ever before, a sunset and bird song matter. As do all those beautiful bouts of ignored or unexpected benevolence we so easily overlook. And that is where so much of this inspiration business gets its earnest start.

Of course, I must acknowledge the easy aspect of my place and time. Even if on the brink of some form of collapse, I still reside in this land of milk and honey. No war upon my shore and not even the plight of the less fortunate currently within my gaze. But even in the place currently being torn apart by munitions and madness- in peaceful times there is an aesthetic and appeal to each that is uniquely equipped to each area. Might be part of the reason why folks fight, even if horribly misguided. The idea, even if not quite correct, of persevering or returning the magnificence once held for where home is called. Meaning, of course, the folks that end up doing the fighting and the likewise plights, not the intimidating factor facilitators that bring about these forays for reasons more insidious and self-serving.

But inspiration need not only find itself in serene scenes and such. Our desperation and destitution can serve the sensations once associated with the Muses in ways comparable in might, at minimum. After all, it is not uncommon to the human story to have rock bottom be the only place your feet find the firmness to fight back towards the top. Though, I don’t think that necessarily an absolute catalyst for change. Just an example among the many known, and many more that we have yet to even begin to conceptualize.

So, when the ego and I arrive on these evenings, it is not intimidation that aligns with the genuine aims. Control, I know well enough, is never possible the further one opens their philosophical panorama. And just as goes with the current mass implementation of portable personalized computing and communication systems- the fight for control will always produce diminishing returns of gratification internally, while at the same time, historically speaking, bringing either the caster or the conjured closer to chaos. The trouble is, there is always a cost to be paid for such things. And so often, the demagogues with bloodied hands of responsibility never have to pay as much as the collection of folks plundered.

However, it is so often from that desperation that the inspiration emerges that will outlast any individual from the era of origin. And not because of some maniac drunk on narcissism had actually achieved any greatness. But the ideas wrought from our triumphs and degradations find homes in the masses of self as have conglomerated over the millennia. The unsung scribes of time are why we know about any yesterdays aside the ones we personally live. And beyond them, the poets of one form or another, who take what sense can perceive and create clarity and concentrated intrigue for ages to come. An immortality of word and melody so viscerally human that ideologies and deities get made from them.

But the key to perpetuating inspiration is being as open as possibility will allow to being inspired. And as that has ebbed and waxed throughout my own existence, in my mind I try and keep that notion. For surely, a being that has never been inspired could never even hope to inspire elsewhere. Right?