This evening begun by hand, pen and pad, in the backroom of a pub that used to be a local. And so, I confess, I do miss my old neighborhood. In a great many ways, still, feeling more my home then where the land of my growing up or the land which can currently claim my residence. But that would be life, wouldn’t it? Always finding new business to miss, until it is you that is the entity missed.

I wonder whether a significant bit of the current philosophical dismay has to do with the under assumption of my own insignificance. A miscalculation between ego and analytical intellect, painting scenes of self that will always sway more abstract than actual. The image something imagined more than witnessed. A vision, though vivacious, still a fabrication.

But, I suppose, we all have to play into our own mythos for as long as we can muster to make this existence something lived as opposed to just survived.

And it might be that the survival has outweighed the inspiration of my written word, as of late. Then again, my willful ignorance of personal fictions for the sake of practicality could be slowly strangling my ambitions and lowering the inhibition to be more than I seem or see myself to be. That in all this time, I’ve been slowly sinking in prologues, submerged to near suffocation. A story told too much on contemplation becomes ignorant of the actions that make a tale worth telling to begin with.

Might be the natural fate of an aging being, but when have I ever let some unadulterated nature be the sole sway in how my life goes, in glory or dismay?

Perhaps this all just an amalgamation of comedy and tragedy, both of which I have had an abundance enough to never call my life mundane. Neutrality might be critical to survival, but as we discussed before- I am not her for mere survival. And while greatness might be an ideal which I may some day have to violently reconcile, ordinary is still not fate for the likes of I. Even in the more hopeless fights, I’d rather fury than submission- even if that means making a mean that barely breaks out of the red.

And it could be, that someday, I might miss this. The habit hatched by a younger man so distraught to not even know how good he’d got it. Or so green as to not even able to begin the comprehension of the great many tests yet to face. And not all of them are to be passed. Not then, and maybe, not ever. Surely, the shortness of even the longest human life must mean that something, well, most things, statistically, must get left out.  

So, within all this dire doom and delight, I worry of numbness. And that concern could be taken as sign enough that it has not entirely set in. And yet, I know for certain that there are parts of my identity that are hidden even from their creator. Dr. Duluoze unable to explain how his monster came to life, never mind why he keeps urging to pick up his equivalent of quill or fiddle.

Could be some great adventure is just around the bend. Or another one of life’s ass kickings. All soothsaying up to this point has never held an absolute accuracy, so there is no reason to suspect some immediate infallibility about to emerge. And while I feel that there is a growing universality to much of the despondency of good, mostly honest folk- I do not believe that the death of the human spirit is entirely immediate or inescapable. And just because a way might not be immaculately perceptible, does not mean that paths cannot be found. Or made. For a species that can blast it’s way through actual mountains, can surely find some maneuvering with a few metaphysical ones. Even if so much of our troubles seem entirely novel, there is always a bit of regular essence that remains.

But, hark, dear reader. Weariness from the hour and activity beckons me to concede this activity consciousness of the day. Mayhaps next week we solve it all. But if not, it was nice enough to talk again. And unless I become thoroughly convince to abandon any even mildly extraordinary attempts at the understanding of existence, me thinks we’ll talk again next week.

And if you ever wanted to throw an idea that might get toyed with here in whatever this space and time has become, you need only say the word. I’ll always listen, even if I cannot hold any promises beyond that.