Maybe I’ve been slow to post, as of late.
And what of my silence, of my failure to express? True, I’ve felt fatigued and emptied by all the expression needed for day to day life. And yet, there is more. I also feel a bit stuffed with thoughts I only share with myself, and an increasing awareness of my uniqueness in the world.
My thoughts are not revolutionary so much as they are isolating.
Maybe I feel like a man who stands before his peers to tell a tale, and estimates that they are too numerous to have but a few who care or are capable of understanding.
Maybe it’s the fatalistic feeling that nothing can really change anyway, only evolve, like the microevolution of bacteria inside our tylenol-subdued heads. Why then speak?
If early life is a growing and building, than maybe maturity is simply that which was built being attacked and then many parts of it/us dying, save the few pieces that have the unusual composition to survive. Those remaining pieces grow and are what’s left of us, if anything. Maybe that is why some wither so fast and why some last an age. The ones who last are like super-bugs, immune to life’s anti-bacteria. Maybe that’s why many adults live as shadows of the children they once were, like mutant, surviving-strains; a piece of what had been, the remnant that survives, however twisted and different.
Maybe what I am as an adult, is simply what is left over from the killing of my feeble pieces by life.
A rock can brake a window, but an opportunity can break your concentration, or even your mind, if you allow your imagination to get ahold of it. I think people both need imagination to survive as humans, and that it keeps them from really living. Imagination is what allowed us to build the first bed, when we’d slept on the ground. It is also what keeps us up at night, what strangles us in a hundred-thousand ridiculous and dangerous religions, and what makes us hate our present realities.
For my part, I love opportunities, and don’t fear them. Somewhere in my mind as a child the notion grew that one who misses opportunities is the real fool of life. They complain and muse of the life they can imagine, but aren’t ever offered. But on the other hand, All an opportunity needs to do, is to show up with his many kin, and the food is set out for that monstrous imagination to feast on and reign. His rule is a mad, slow, death. And so, we don’t fear an opportunity as much as we fear his arriving with many brothers and sisters.
Opportunities disconnect you from yourself and your own will, since they are offered from outside you. You can serve opportunities because they are all around you, and never accomplish anything you’d actually like to do. Besides that even, often we’d have no idea of what we’d like to do -because of how we have strong imaginations and can pretty much imagine a million things that we would love to do, though the lot of them are bunk.
I’m not venting out because I feel surrounded by choking opportunities (my starry array of opportunities are checked by a deeply conceived plan I’ve set out for myself). I assume it looks that way.
Perhaps I wanted to type away until I started using words like “bunk” and “microevolution.” Or, perhaps I, like you, simply wanted to see what I would come up with. Perhaps I wanted to illustrate in this arrangement of linear symbols knitted into prose, that poetic blank and loud. Loud in its echoing waves of existence, while blank in its state of existence. The Blank and Loud is the opportunity to speak, and then not to. It is the opportunity to write to you while keeping my life and oscillating thoughts strictly to myself.
It must be a place-holder card of sorts, to stand for all the things it would take me too long to say. Things I really have been thinking about.
what a strange post.
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