Good evening!
Funny how commentary turns into greeting – “good evening” seems strange if you think from a non-English native.
But maybe this sort of phenomenon is universal. I mean, there’s buenas noches for Spanish, isn’t there? Though it does literally mean good night, it’s still another commentary-turned-expression.
This isn’t very substantiated though. Mediocre philology, I suppose.
Well, I’m writing to you because I’m not sure what else to do at the moment. There are a few options, but usually in these moments of rest I would find myself researching nonsense. Seeing as reddit and programming forums are banned now, there’s only google, chatgpt depending. But I don’t have any research in mind. Usually the forum feeds would provide the topics for me. This is a welcome change of course, but this newfound responsibility to direct myself when I’d rather lose myself feels uncomfortable. What better way to work through it than to write to you?
No commentary from others. So I’m making the commentary – would I want to read this commentary? Sometimes. Maybe it’d glean something insightful, if you’re lucky enough. But after reading a lot of blogs from random peoples I am not sure. I think it’s just idle entertainment for the most part.
There’s nothing wrong with this entertainment. All we’re doing is substituting the entertainment which puts a lien on one’s peace. One could at least argue the longer form helps with attention span, a strained characteristic nowadays.
At least I have music still. This sort of pilgrimage pales in comparison to those in the past, if I’m listening to music.
And I think that leads into something I’ve been thinking about recently: it’s a common tendency to “equalize” or reach “homeostasis” not only in body but in mind.
What once were luxuries become commonplace. And what was once delight becomes expectation. I usually imagine a typical couple’s journey – first sweetly laden, but eventually barren. To miss someone, or something, even while it’s right in front of you.
I miss the way you made me feel.
You won’t know what you have until its gone – a common phrase.
Are we condemned to only know sweetness through its deprivation? I don’t think so. As with all habits, so it may be rewritten.
But I wouldn’t admonish anyone having trouble with such things – training one’s mind to act otherwise takes a good amount of mindfulness. Slowly cultivated.
Whatever arguments I find myself in, so I remember at least I can argue. In other circumstances one wouldn’t be afforded such things – you could’ve been disposed. The rowdy children probably were. If not disposed, well, maybe who you’re arguing with isn’t here with you anymore. Arguing is mostly pointless anyway.
Contemplating this homeostasis, so I wonder why we’re all so frantic to make sure we’re feeling okay. That everything is fine. That there are no problems.
Even if you furnished a plush-filled world with shortcakes for breakfast, your daughter will inevitably throw the plushie at you. She will find fault, and it will consume her. Unless, of course, she’s mindful enough. Maybe something that could be taught, I guess. Were you taught such things?
Well, it seems that it’s hubris to assume that if you say the right things, provide the right meals, offer some ready advice, guard rails – it’s hubris to assume you could prevent Sorrow waiting its turn. Ever slowly creeping, ever slowly suffocating, ever slowly swallowing.
There’s only so much you can do. Nature will exploit this tendency against you, if you’re inclined to people-pleasing. You cannot win another’s battle, maybe.
You, more often than not, can only stand by in silence. The silent watcher seems to be the only role left.
Now, what to do, what to do. There are a few things I could do. I could continue to work. I could continue to study. I could continue to write. I’ll probably continue writing until I’ve no commentary left. Which may be soon.
You know why I never attach dates to anything? Because time doesn’t exist. Only cycles seem to exist. One could certainly count the cycles, but that seems to be a fruitless endeavor.
Staying in the confines of time-counters leaves you a little more hurried, a little less relaxed, and a bit more chained to future’s past. Seeing as the past shall inevitably be rewritten and the future needs writing, what use is such a perspective?
Perhaps false memories will give you as much pause as it did for me. And if you think about how dreams mingle in the same storage space, or imaginary fancies – what’s sincerely stable about our linear timelines? Are you sure you know who you are? I don’t know who I am. 知己！
Well, maybe you’ll come to abandon the time masters too. The months turn like pages for me. And the days come along too. And it’s a book that never ends. When it does, I figure another book begins. Probably. Do you believe in after-life?
I would say we’re in the after-life right now, aren’t we? Most of the time we’re reviewing the actions we did take, relaying the actions we will take, and you can stab me for imitating Laozi if you want.
When I was many cycles back I use to fret about what would make for interesting phrases and thoughts. I mean, it’s easy enough in person: the answer is right in front of you. Whatever the other person is speaking, just stay on that topic and you’ll succeed.
But it’s not so straightforward with writing. If I studied Nabokov a bit more maybe there’d be more success. But in this cycle I don’t really care anymore if it’s a bunch of gibberish sliding down the page. Because I’m not getting paid, of course! That, and I don’t have any reputation to guard. I don’t have any identity to protect, propagate. The only incentive that drives these pages is to stumble along until it becomes a run.
Still, it certainly puzzles me sometimes, wondering what type of writing someone would pay for. I don’t know. Maybe if you shared your bookshelf we could come to a consensus – maybe. Do you think the populace cares for any novel anymore? I can’t remember the last time I talked about a novel in-depth, unless you count the Bible.
Well, there was a phone conversation. I think it was about Peterson’s book, and his statement: Desire is a contract to be unhappy with yourself until its fulfilled.
I’m not sure if I read his lobster book. I think I did at some point. But yes, that was the book I last discussed. Either that or some manga. I guess a reasonable alternative is, instead of reading commentary, one could be immersing into an isekai. Maybe I’ll do that.
The objective here is to stumble into new ventures, and reading anything at all is relatively novel. More like, I haven’t bothered to read for awhile.
Well, I hope you’re able to figure out your homeostasis conundrum if you find it haunting you.