The strangest of things occurred to me the other day as I lingered around a certain consideration within this ongoing crisis that creeps back around in a sense that accompanies sporadic. One should hope that the circumstance from this considered idea would turn my sneaking suspicion in the right direction. From the corner of my eye, I see something—that said so-called crisis—a wretched figure slinking with stealth through the shadows of my mental ruin, quietly slipping through an opening at the other end of my abandoned approach.
It would be an oversight to employ the fact that I have been drained of all creative motivation as of late. I would be speaking upon the terms of honesty that I am lacking the necessary ration of inspiration to excuse the absence of my muse. I have found that when we descend towards the fluidity of disorientation, we tend to take a hankering to all different sorts of mischief, especially in the mental compartment of ones’ self.
It is probably nothing more than a false pretense regarding the mending of the cracks in the foundation of suffering. During the most recent spell of this ongoing existential crisis—something happened that had yet to happen. I began to question my own voice of reason. Was this an actual crisis, or had I finally booked my round trip ticket upon the crazy train? Had I finally cracked?
I have always leaned into the more eccentric curves on this road of existence.
I have always leaned into the more eccentric curves on this road of existence. It is often that I pass the projected passerby who lives life in the façade of normalcy. As I see them in the rearview, I wonder what life would have been like, had I…. Then I remember a lesson that I once tried to teach myself via this blog. The one I passed—now far behind me—dim their driving lamps and they vanish into thin air. It’s like they never fathomed an existence upon being.
I cannot cry with teary eyes, nor deem this noise as crazy at this point in my life—the less abrasive way of putting it—would be extraordinary. It’s that little extra that defines those of us who shutter the blinds of our comfort zone, separating ourselves from the mentality of a world where thoughts are being herded with the same logic as Orwellian mind control.
Whatever it is that shook me to my foundation would be fortunate enough to learn that it worked. It has been quite the pleasant diversion from the routine of gluttonous behavior that most men seek as their only salvation. It intruded itself upon my spirit and exalted me into the vague realm of the romantic. I do know that the distracted recreation of writing keeps my mind on the same path as my heart and for that I am grateful. If a curse was cast upon me, it should be known that instead of haunting me with weakened knees, it has soothed my soul like a spell smitten with providence.
All kidding aside, I do not believe that I am going crazy—my mind is simply inflating with archaic apprehension. I have read more in the past 18 months, than I have in the past 18 years. Some of these books are antiquated with philosophical lore; others were read amongst an event of becoming wise, while some were written in the way of achieving awareness, one even mapped out a structured Russian ideology about the pillars of geopolitics, that one carrying quite the fright and very articulate in the way it is being demonstrated in the present day.
This knowledge has opened the windows of my mind while the drafts of wisdom flow through them like an autumn wind. Fragments of the old me sneak through the same window, seeking freedom from self-inflicted suffering.
There is something you should know about me, for my entire life I have always been searching for something else. What that is, I do not know. If I did, insert smartass remark here. I often feel as though I have been split in half and if there is a lick of truth in said feeling, then it is very possible that I am searching for that other half of me.
I have taken to the industry and application of writing, trying to find my misplaced “Holy Grail”. I have given my soul to a band called Widespread Panic, listening for it. I have climbed a mountain, reaching for it. I have had financial freedom upon my fingertips, only to throw it away, searching for it, and I have lingered in love, longing for it. I went so far as to leave the nostalgia of home fifteen years ago, yearning for it.
It is in the fullness of time that the answers we seek usually arrive bound with astonishment, whilst we are left scratching about our head with a perplexed air.
Now I know what it is and where I must find it. It is I, and I would be stunned if I don’t spend the rest of my life digging for it. It is in the fullness of time that the answers we seek usually arrive determined in astonishment, whilst we are left scratching about our head with a perplexed air.
It is not time to write this whole thing off yet. I have not flown the coop, bounded away towards some vast wilderness, butt-naked, with fluttering clothes behind me, waving goodbye in a primitive man sort of way. But if the time does come for me to welcome the handicaps of older age, I’d like to consider crazy as a way to go, because being customary ain’t shucks to being crazy.
I must tackle this newfangled method of mending my mental faculty. The only way this is to happen is to suspend the being of this blog. I am not sure for how long, one cannot say, especially me. I guess however long it takes to finish the book and more importantly to find me. I would like to say that there is a way to prevent this but there isn’t at this time. Everything could change tomorrow, or the next day, but at this point that is even farfetched. I am aware that this could be detrimental to the loyalty of my support staff, a.k.a., you, the one reading this right now. I have used excessive caution in my reasoning process and it is my hope that you consume these words with curiosity and excitement, looking with forward eyes, waiting with the anticipation as to what comes upon the structure of next.
This short-lived season of my life has been one that weighs with anxiety and it is time to turn the corner towards the spring of redemption. Hope will always hang on to make a show of revival—not needing any reason to back it—but only because it is in the nature of hope to revive itself when the spring in its step has not been lost to the inferiority of old age, nor with the familiarity of failure. I have always found it better to explore one’s surroundings than to bear the heaviness of weight with idle behavior.
As much as I love this blog and the elasticity of its message, the only way I can make the world a better place is to attack change in the vicinity of personal presence. I have to get out and approach the revolution with the acoustics of an auditory voice. It should be noted that I do not intend to stop writing—it is my intent to strengthen the bones that have built this blog by simply stepping away with the brevity of an intermission.
As of late I seem to merely pick a topic and screw it into my own twisted reality, while trying to relay the message to the reader in a rhetorical kind of way. While intriguing, I feel that my words are becoming errant in their ability to be genuine within the sanctity of novelty and progression.
Words are wont to make a difference, this doesn’t mean they always will, especially in the five o’clock world that we call the comforts of home today. Words built with argumentative structure won’t change the mind of someone who doesn’t see things the same as you in certain areas of established opinions, you’d be none the wiser to talk over a bottle of liquor to get your point across.
What works better than either of these, is to instill and cultivate courage over the duration of time in a tight knit community and watch as they learn to support each other under the veil of what it is that is right. The challenge is not to find the better angle of an argument’s approach, or retreat. Yet it is to change, not in the sense of radical fanatics, but by building on what is already there.
It is an errand I must run; full of such gravity that it pulls me back to where I belong, and that seems to be lost and fallen. It ought to be remembered that should a word become lightning, it will leap with stunned suddenness upon this paper, while the ink drips from this sword, only to write again. If not for anything more than to right the ship, that is lost at sea, with the sail set in the direction of the good fight.
Sometimes silence sounds sweeter than a symphony of sympathy. For now, I must stare into the sunset of life with the spirit of adventure and bewilderment as my only companions. I must rest in the sanctuary of my sanity until the facilities of my thoughts give way to the sublimity of their meaning.
Or this could just be, in its simplest sagacity, some sort of ignorant bliss by way of sleep depravity.
Thank you for taking the time to read. It is with hope, that I shall see you all sooner rather than later.