Is it the ideas that plague me? Or are they the salvation in all this being?

Neither, most likely. As with almost everything else, it is the vast spaces between the polarities where this life gets on with its living. Sketchy, though, these days seem to live in a haze sewn up into something that appears already as memory before it even passes into the past. And, oh, woe be me and my particles persistently pleading for purpose in this ever-diminishing timeline. The web of why and why not weaving through this not nearly worn-down soul, despite all its weathering.

Yet, this bare minimum is short of enough, and has been for a while now. The existential junkie, doomed or self-dooming to be some vague antithesis of the hapless, happy idiot.

But the trepidation stems from within, all while anticipating catalysts that cannot be secured by any guarantee outside of this organic machine of self. How much time has been lost, squandered while waiting for moments and motivation that are fickle or festering with falsified possibility? If only this, then, as though by some immaculate other worldly intention, all other pieces find their places with ease and poise.

And all of that anticipation of circumstance to find some optimal footing is an even further fallacy when considering what I know to be an elite among the not timid list of personality traits. Or defects, depending on the usage or mood. For it must be well enough known by now that the suspicion of aligned divine altruism invokes a profound skepticism within me. Too addicted to unpredictability to ever accept anything lacking the enigmatic aesthetic for which I have such deep fondness.

Could be part of the issue my sentient state itches with at the moment. The consistent sameness surrounding the status of the current span of time. And trapped is not a lost idea when I lay out the options of my immediate future. When balanced against the moralist sticking points- there isn’t all that much to invoke some sensationalized state of change about your old narrator’s story. Not currently, at least. Benevolent responsibility binds me for a while longer to the series of stages and characters of this life’s production. Not that I necessarily wish to throw it all away from some mystery, though that has been a move of yesteryear- but the perception of limited choice while still holding on duties to which I feel bound to. Gladly, I might add.

But if the external alterations are appearing unreliable for the time being, that would have to leave the weaving of change to the internal operations. One of the most potent realms of ‘easier said than done’. And the terrifying truth of the limitations of change my capability holds. Yet more, and different are still urges inescapable from the internal workings.

So, try, we must. To make more of this life while there is still space and time left for wandering. But the great why has its usual follow up questioning, or question. How?

The prevention of redundancy relies upon efforts being made more widespread. For if this is the only thing written each week, month, and so on- than the repetition of points is muddled with maddening malice. Insanity inspired by the interloping sameness, all insipid and inflated with nihility.

So, provoke, I must, more from my might and mind and mettle. Not to change who I am, but reinvigorate the self that stands triumphant when fed on the benevolence actions and dialogue of a life well lived. And as grandiose as my dreaming might always seem to be, I am not fool enough to think that variations are exclusively expansive and large in their origin. For it is always the miniscule spread out over time that leads to the more vast variation of alterations of existence. The little habits must accumulate in order to present grand enough to be perceived.

And so, there seems to be little more left to say on this evening’s ramble, though so much of the evening still remains. It is my hope- no, my desire to find more before this day retires. But elsewhere, it must be sought and fought for. And with enough lucky, or better still, enough effort, something might be got that will make next week capable of a greater depth than found here, in this date and time. For if this bare minimum isn’t enough, then satiation must be sought elsewhere, and everywhere. Lest this experiment die on the withered vine of repetition.