Although I’ve learned of compassion and its open silence that all one can expect— although I take advantage of this meager site to invite anyone along my thoughts— although abandoning this site prior left me with two weeks of null, nothing more, and nothing left thereafter, I still find myself confused greatly.
I know more than anyone else the bridge from virtual to reality is of mirage; shimmy its way into your closer desires but extinguished at first trial, first glance. Rarely can you hope for salvation from such finnicky means. Twitchy indeed is the online firmament, fickle and mean, deceitful. Though I know this (wrongly you may believe), and hold it in deep, here I am still expressing myself. How absurd is that! So it’s a constant question: why are you here, why are you here?
Since I’ve returned I thought — in the usual morose melodramatic manner — to delete this account, clear out my email and vanish into air. That, maybe if I didn’t have this as a place to return to, that those two weeks of null would morph into two weeks of steady progress. Progress towards what? Well, I suppose a silent isolation with the constant presence of Nature around me. That I would return to the forest finally.
But here I feebly put another few paragraphs together. Letting passion wring me dry for some aligned bits. Here is my sacrifice to the altar of Language once more. Why is this so?
Well, three steps from where I am to reality seems to be leering ever farther. Furthermore, whatever steps of envisioned self seems meek in the eyes of God, of vanity and the like: is this not enough as it is? Yet most would say I am only coping, c’est la vie.
A popular theme explored is whether art carries moral-current to it. The effects of art, the written word, Dorian Gray and whatever else: a most neutral stance concludes it is always us, the onlooker, to make our tools of it. Maybe a course on introductory Latin will save you far more than any of these rambles I have here.
Books as tools, words as minerals; are you collecting the right stuff? Do you fashion yourself a factory and pawn off the fool’s gold you believe to be real? It’s the curious trend I’m at least on, but I always remind myself of my isolated world here as I write, and that’s that.
So I question this urge to write altogether: what is the use in indulging into neurosis? I would say so it’s to confront myself, but is it sincerely? If it were sincere, wouldn’t a journal suffice? But then I say, well, maybe it’s an act of compassion — how conceited one could be in their fool’s gold. To share whatever knowledge harvested: how absurd!
Just as I regretted unfollowing people, I am sure to regret deleting this account. So I leave it open. And I hope that, in time, it’ll yield different fruit, although I’m not sure what. Just feeling rather suspended. Maybe this place, as an outlet, grounds me. But maybe it’s precisely the ground I ought to leave, if I find myself so weary of any real fruit online worlds may bear.
Men are often afraid to rock the boat in which they hope to drift safely through life’s dangerous currents, when, in fact, the boat is stuck on a sandbar.
They would be better off to rock the boat and try to shake it loose or, better still, jump in the water and swim for the shore.
— Thomas Szasz, Words to the Wise
When I look over this site, and all the word, and all of the patient people, and everything else, on one hand I do push myself into this caring suit; on the other, I feel as though I am no longer human, no longer does it rise anything in me, or that I don’t want it to, because I cannot tell how real any of it is. In some strange way, whatever display of passion is akin to a part of me latching onto ajar doorway as I’m being sucked into some vortex, where everything I was or could be will vanish too.
That, the reason I feel compelled to delete instead of letting it be, is that I suspect one day my mind will be no longer here, or the motives no longer present, and instead of a drop of a curtain, you’ll see this accumulate some mildew, some spanish moss, wondering whoever erected all of these signs or posts, for whatever civilization they must’ve belonged.
It is quite tempting to stamp an .END. on something in hopes it’ll invite the NEW right after. But such acts are only solidified internally. The .END. must be rendered mentally upon the front page, or whatever artifact — and the NEW must be already siphoned into your engine, it should already dot the day. Hopefully your next ventures fulfill whatever promises it offered.
No matter what, no matter if I call myself morose or not, the most ideal is to laugh about all of this and embrace the day. That’s what I would hope to impart, if I would be allowed to do so. To be home with yourself most of all.