Is my great madness this hope that will not go?

As seemingly incalculable resources are set to squeeze out the usefulness of these tool remaining to humanity for this benevolent battel for futures that aren’t doomed- still, I wonder what it is that can be done. And as fruitless as it so often seems, coding for capitulation remains void from this personal software. Each day arrives with ever more queries while solutions dry up where once was thought to be in abundance.

And yet, here again. You and I, dear reader.

The luddite lunging and lurching forward. The writer in the age where nearing no one reads. And indie idealist impossibly against conglomerated attempted coercion. Some Atlas grown high on his own supply, perhaps unable to perceive that the world he strives to hold above the abyss in nothing but a specter. A whisper of things that haven’t been, and never might be.

Last week, this was a day late. And in the missed deadline of self-imposition, the very continued existence of this here experiment was brought to greater question than it has in a good long while. Why bother is an easy opponent to grant victory. If returned stimulation where the incentive at play here, surely that futile bell would have rung its last long ago. Surely, Pavlov himself couldn’t reckon with the insanity this bipedal beast at the keys keeps on with.

That’s just it though, isn’t it. Hope is not some artifact that can be acquired. No portion of the present can ever really contain such vast inspiration. Only in what resides ahead can something like hope continue to find its substance. And if your past is like mine in any facet of proportions, there is plenty behind to ward off any other type of animal looking to maintain survival. Battered enough, one would think that the instinct of perpetuation would provoke retreat from all this heavy thinking.

Still, for all our cruelties and corruptions this idea of potential better has somehow survived bombardment. And not just some unattainable wish, but in a requisition that knows it must still navigate some portion of this conferred reality with some variation of tangible means. And any outlandish desires aside, each and every step towards some impending whatever is navigable at least one pace after another. Long paths even when astutely proposed are unable to assume variables and succeed with resolute rigidity. Countless metaphors about that which does not sway with the wind is meant to be broken by it, as I’m sure you know. Best laid plans of mice and such.

I fight hard for continued encouragement, even if the external world does little more than tap the well of such courage towards impending drought. And while expecting nothing from any others, such others still find ways to support even when I am appearing in some version of refusal. And more importantly than anything received, is that which we give, and give by choice. And while it is only another metaphor that our personal cardiac pumps contain our emotions- the heart in that metaphysical way is a pillar that both sets us apart and unities us with this very physical and unrelenting existence which we share. And at the nucleus of humanity’s gallantry is that constant yet ever elusive hope.

Now, that pragmatism originating from the center of our skulls while, being very integral must also be regulated, as does that metaphor space so regulate the space in our chest, just stage-left of center. And as with any living equilibrium, its balance fluctuates and responds to its opposing side in real-time. And much of my life must be dedicated to a certain logistic sort of mind to meet needs for those beyond myself. Shelter, employment, and so on. As much of a dreamer I am and always desire to be, this life of mine is to give so stingy or absent on taking I am regularly set to being.

But bounding back to balance, the realization finds me rather easily that the most starved portion of my perspective so often has to do with the creative sects of my sentience. And a younger man of this very flesh lived in a more peaceful and economically prosperous world (even if it ‘twere but a functional illusion and he voice much discontent with it then). Yet, the modern version of your humble narrator seems set to face off against decay and decline better funded than his working class ass can compete with, and an almost constant bombardment addictive and dependency creating by design. A machine that feeds on human need emotional and attentive, and churns out only something short of substance of neurological narcotic of diminishing and dwindling returns.

But where they might seemingly reign supreme, I see an opportunity in the voids they fail to find. Taking attention on a dopamine drip may appear to be absolute in the modern moments, but anyone having an honest conversation with themselves or most others knows that there is an absence in human life that grows in scope. The great missing aspects still survive to find surface here and there, and maybe more often depending on the person. This age of digital sedation and wistless wagering is not only unsustainable, but I believe, it is far more undesired that the advertising claims.

Yet, with all this comes that perpetual question. How? What steps are there to take and which among them is best for each ever-changing moment. And while I have a few ideas, even if vague, I’d be willing to lend an ear to more. Alone, this can’t be done. And alone, all this hope just turns itself selfish. And from there, emerges the very greed that we must find a way to recede.

But still, let’s hope. And from there, we find the action.