Hello again friends. Hope you had the day worth a lifetime.
Today was filled with meandering, mostly. Mostly. I find myself keeping tabs on some programming languages I use, even though it doesn’t make much sense.
Oh well, who wants to talk about programming anyway? It’s pretty straightforward and there’s not much to discuss. You can con yourself into believing there’s a discussion. I do many days, many times. It’s a long con, sometimes.
I guess because I wouldn’t mind working on a compiler, as that’s what’s convenient about technology. It has the same properties as our concepts of good: we’ll never agree about anything of it, but we can still suggest that we need more of it, that we need to educate others on it, and somehow the problem will resolve itself.
Technology works in the same way: one can delay the larger questions effortlessly. Most around usually accept this premise: it’s always better to have more technology. Within this premise I wouldn’t have to wonder where I’m walking or why: the mere fact of working on technology excuses me from such responsibilities.
Unfortunately after a bit of this bi-weekly fretting I find myself resolutely working on profitable ventures instead. Once you see through the haze most of the times technology renders itself as this mystical hammer without many nails. No one needs another compiler, and contributing to the compilers out there already yields little fruit. For some reason doing the very thing technology is here for – to make our lives more fruitful, whether through entertainment or convenience – doesn’t ignite one toward building. Perhaps because it’s tangible: the best daydreams are the ones wildly abstract. More potentials to play with.
Yes, technology eventually renders itself as the ultimate procrastination tool. Even then, the irony of procrastination is the coupled assumption: that there’s valuable work to be done. Sometimes I find it hard to see the value in most work. Maybe if I saw the delight of the users of whatever I did work on. Maybe, but even then who’s to say.
Whenever I have a meandering day, I usually remind myself I’m not being tortured. This at least alleviates the deflated sort of conclusion twilight brings – traded for a pound of guilt. It makes me realize that maybe I haven’t suffered enough. After all, that’s why I’m writing to you, isn’t it?
Maybe if I learn to accept the abstract sufferings of mental works and keystrokes a bit more, I would glean something. Maybe. Instead I fixated on how to suffer more physically, as that’d be the way to humble me. Breathing hard blocks out these sort of things.
It must be a mild strange to think that writing posts would be a form of suffering, but you’d be surprised to find your suffering localities. Where the sufferlings settle. Pay close attention and maybe you’ll find how any sting and groan traces back to a thought. Thus, the more you write the more you unleash thoughts until they can strangle you.
That’s why I sometimes find those so strange who want more thoughts. Whatever adjectives attached: pretty, deep, mystical, lovely – I could slightly understand the last one, slightly. The emptiness our consciousness ebbs within doesn’t need any thoughts to feel its profound peace, probably. That’s what I whisper at least. Most thoughts that fit within the mode of writing are buds of suffer-seedlings. Probably because the framework writing nestles itself in is quite hard to escape out of. As you write so you must remember we’re in this mode of day. All art binds itself to the era, even if you hope to escape it. And even if I resolutely assure you this isn’t art at all, it’s a platform of art, and the subconscious expectations override everything else.
So, for example, if something reads too flowery – the type of thought you actually want bouncing around in you – yet if it is too flowery there’s a dirtiness to writing it down. It makes me nauseous to write such flowery things down, sometimes. Perhaps. The very modes and assumptions about writing makes it incompatible. I guess the rebellious spirit shall still attempt it. Walking the fine line, aren’t we all sometimes?
Lately I’ve been dreaming about an ability to teleport. Just so I could have some different places to walk. Walking within tundra. Under the Aurora Lights. Or through Copenhagen. Who knows!
I wouldn’t mind seeing some draping vines through alleyways, whether of wire or of plant. Plant, preferably. Maybe we could meet in Bhutan. Letting the mountains take the cradling role.
Well, I just imagine walking there instead, and it relaxes me, and maybe you could agree perhaps this is all you need.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever figure out the whole aimless meandering web browsing antidote – partly because I’m not sure if I want to. But I’ll partly admit an inevitability attached: this meandering day left an ennui a little too palpable. To where one could note that maybe these meandering stops have nothing left to harvest.
Is it unfortunate? I had a reflex to say it is. But maybe not. Eternal September is a blessing, isn’t it? Because it forces you to move on to greater things (or at least more interesting things, however subdued you want to be).
I’m thankful for all of the posts with lingo I no longer recognize, with worries I no longer relate to. They almost feel like Lego pieces from a set three generations down – to where I wonder what aesthetic conjured all of this. What made this preferable? My taste is too dilettante, maybe. Or maybe I never had taste to begin with, as the pointlessness corrodes the postings I scroll through. How have I spent so much time in such desolate towns?
As our cycles quicken I only seem to have virtue left to hold onto. Virtue is the only thing right in this world. And virtue is defined as something obvious enough if you know it.
There is no virtue in acting rebellious, or in vogue, however else. There are no golden points won for having a flavor of your own – all are but renditions against the gauntlets our taskmasters throw from above. And the gauntlets snag you, inevitably.
I suppose it’s but another way to avoid responsibility: that seems to be the rallying point amongst most cultures today. Sometimes I find it ingrained me: whatever my position may be, you can be assured I do not want to take responsibility for anything. This is probably why it’s best to avoid any relationships, friendships, correspondents. It’s a responsibility without much benefit. That’s all the parasocial really is: having the lukewarm perks of interaction without the burdens of upkeep.
How closely tied do you think ignorance and innocence is? Today I was thinking they are one and same: innocence just comes with this coat of things once wished for, at least. I guess the innocent may have some fresh ideas. But the unfortunate part about innocence is how contradictory it is to the Nature of things. Innocence turns into this sickly, withering flower – it refutes the very essence of the game, of value (strength) and coaxes you into thinking that maybe its otherwise. That maybe some sacrifice is alright. To shield it against the winds a bit longer – and so you become an accomplice to something that’s an abomination to Nature, and you will suffer for it. Whether that’s fortunate or misfortunate is up to you. The better strategy is to not think about it too much.
Though one may be quick to label it all as cruelty perhaps one may profit in wondering why it’d be any other way.
Still, maybe innocence is what you live for. The “live for” question is a powerful trump card, isn’t it?
Even I admit that I would rather deal with someone innocent than someone experienced: for the central reason of vicarious existence.
Seeing things through new eyes is beyond valuable. It is, in some ways, value itself. I guess maybe Nature provides some innocence to encourage us – that we may once more see things for the first time through them.
That’s a pretty strong incentive. The difficulty is finding any innocence left anywhere: most of it is gone, or obscured, but I suppose that’s part of the challenge, isn’t it?
Quite a hefty demand for such experiences: perhaps it’s better to find innocence in oneself, whatever remains.
quasi modo geniti infantes