Spring is in the air

Dear future me,

I’m recov­er­ing sort of from a lengthy, fun filled week­end. Time real­ly does pass us by so eas­i­ly, with stealth and unaware­ness it drifts with­out ceas­ing or pause. At times I hat­ed time, the unceas­ing nature of it, the con­stant chang­ing effect of it, like it wouldn’t give you pause for respite and to reflect, bask in the plea­sure of alive­ness.

Sure­ly we weren’t each cre­at­ed unique­ly only to not enjoy our­selves in some slight way. What good was it for a man to be a slave, to plow through life and mov­ing to the orches­tra of acci­dent ? Do we work mere­ly to exist and keep on exist­ing ? Like pure automa­tons work­ing in a Japan­ese machine fac­to­ry. Who am I help­ing through my toil besides me, to quan­ti­fy my right to exist.
I found myself con­tem­plat­ing life and its myr­i­ad nuances, so infi­nite in scale, broad in scope. I saw men of pow­er and pres­tige, incred­i­ble wealth who were they them­selves slaves to the winds of pan­de­mo­ni­um. And I also beheld men liv­ing in abject pover­ty rich­er than any prince of men, kings and emper­ors had they been born with but dif­fer­ing cir­cum­stances, more favor­able vari­ables.

I used to indulge in so many pity par­ties grow­ing up. Why is a CK mod­el look­ing guy like me so sin­gle ? When is my hot, mod­e­lesque, sexy god­dess going to emerge in my life ? Where’s my dream job with a desk, phone, sec­re­tary, and keys to the com­pa­ny car ? I was sup­posed to be schmooz­ing with clients, sound­ing rather impres­sive and mar­ry­ing the boss­es daugh­ter even­tu­al­ly, after he real­ized how much he want­ed me to be his son. Mor­gan Freed­man or Liam Nee­son is sup­posed to be nar­rat­ing my sto­ry. And yet, noth­ing at all ever tran­spired accord­ing to my designs, despite my thought process­es rival­ing that of the Dark Lord of the Sith, Lord Sid­i­ous him­self. For all of our plans with­in plans, they invari­ably wound up fruit­less exer­tions that lead to equal­ly fruit­less results. Some­how, I real­ized that was the fate of every­thing born out of self­ish gain.

For how can I explain it the pecu­liar­ly sat­is­fy­ing sen­sa­tion of show­ing kind­ness, affec­tion, mer­cy, and char­i­ta­ble acts toward the impov­erised, the less for­tu­nate, and bestow­ing rar­i­fied dig­ni­ties on the poor ? For isn’t this the liquor of love, because it impart­ed in me this super­nat­ur­al suc­cor I couldn’t begin to explain. I, in secret lav­ished such things on them in secre­cy, because cul­ture vil­i­fied and con­demned these things as being weak­ness. How­ev­er, I was an intel­lect and I was not sub­ject to the whims of con­ven­tion­al wis­dom, yet truth had guid­ed me, or rather a long­ing for truth. I quick­ly came into a fuller, rich­er bod­ied knowl­edge that men weren’t only weak, pow­er­less, but utter­ly lack­ing in answers and knowl­edge. They only had shal­low, dis­tilled and hole filled knowl­edge which was inher­ent­ly flawed, chock full of error and rid­dled with sub­jec­tive sup­po­si­tions and wild the­o­ries. They only want­ed to have their ears tick­led, they reg­u­lat­ed you with con­tempt for ques­tion­ing and chal­leng­ing them, but often did the exact same thing to any dis­agree­ing with their answers and thoughts, tak­ing offense where there was none. It was mad­den­ing how lost and scared peo­ple were.

Habit : I’ve begun devel­op­ing the habit of dot jour­nal­ing, not that I need­ed any sort of out­let for my OCness (guilty). Some­thing about it pro­vides a mod­icum of amuse­ment for one of my exquis­ite sense of metic­u­lous­ness. I’m just kid­ding, it’s just fun, craft­ing your thoughts, your activ­i­ties, your appoint­ments in art­sy fart­sy ways. I guess for the com­mon per­son this is a form of artistry in itself, an expres­sion of cre­ativ­i­ty, or just a means to sus­tain­able order.

What would I even deduce see­ing my life in such a way, as if it were a series of fan­ci­ful, DIY info­graph­ics ? Is it just yet anoth­er dis­trac­tion in the sea of things ? I’m try­ing to real­ly add reduc­tion sauce to the dig­i­tal dis­trac­tions as well as organ­ic ones like bing­ing on sketch­ing.

Back to the week­end report­ing…

I had striv­en to write some, and I actu­al­ly did but have been derailed mul­ti­ple times by things, such as laun­dry and nurf­ing, work­ing out the bod and giv­ing stoops decent work­outs to shake off winter’s lethar­gy.

I was also brain­storm­ing ideas for imple­men­ta­tion into my own life, which felt so exhaust­ing, time con­sum­ing, and even dis­tract­ing. Is sync­ing our life in bul­let jour­nal for­mat real­ly pro­duc­tive vs. giv­ing the illu­sion of pro­duc­tiv­i­ty ? Does it bestow an impar­ta­tion of hav­ing our­selves well put togeth­er, pol­ished, refined, and thus above the herd of lotus eaters every­where ?

I read this arti­cle which I found quite intrigu­ing, it explores the mys­tery con­cern­ing wealth and suc­cess and how much of a role has in either attribute. Luck, for me has every­thing to do with it. Some of us I under­stood grum­bled and com­plained for not hav­ing per­fect par­ents, not hav­ing rich ones, or some short­com­ing their par­ents pos­sessed which made their lives a mis­ery instead of a suc­cess. In my opin­ion, your par­ents tomb­stone ought to be your step­ping stone.

Yet in so much as we real­ly want a scape­goat for our lot in life, one must relin­quish and give up the pity par­ty we all like to wal­low in like we’re in some drat­ted Kdra­ma. My own par­ents were nev­er per­fect, far from it, yet our chal­lenge in this life and our path is the more dif­fi­cult one which is to love instead of find­ing excus­es not to. Love isn’t a smooth­ly wrought road full of uni­corns and ice cream. It’s dif­fi­cult, it’s ardu­ous and it requires courage, strength, heart, and soul. Amaz­ing­ly, the bulk major­i­ty of us are unschooled and igno­rant of the basic under­stand­ing of the nature of love, only think­ing it a four let­ter word that mag­i­cal­ly hap­pens when all our vari­ables align with the uni­verse. That’s the most detri­men­tal delu­sion that one can have, a thought weapon designed to assas­si­nate the actu­al­iza­tion of authen­ti­cat­ed love.

I don’t pre­tend to be a self help guru here, a dat­ing coach, or liken myself to the author of He’s Just Not That Into You (wish that were the case). Indeed I’ve messed up so many poten­tial rela­tion­ships through noth­ing more than pure self­ish­ness, stu­pid­i­ty, and oth­er fac­tors I don’t exact­ly care to share with any­body on the inter­nets. Might get in the way of my delu­sion of self per­fec­tion 🙂 (that was my joke).

Sea­son Change

So I was wit­ness­ing win­ter slow­ly tran­si­tion­ing into spring, and it was sun­nier and the days length­i­er now. The snows of win­ter are all gone, thank­ful­ly, and I feel a long­ing inside. My mind drifts to deeply embed­ded mem­o­ries of my fad­ed past. If I could bun­dle them and con­sol­i­date them into one pri­ma­ry sin­gu­lar col­lec­tion, yet I couldn’t. My frac­tured mem­o­ry only piece meals all of them in ran­dom, chaot­ic man­ner. I think of a cer­tain day in a par­tic­u­lar peri­od of my life, and all of the things I took for grant­ed or railed against, all my stub­born acts of rebel­lion, my reck­less insub­or­di­na­tion. How young and stu­pid I had been, so ter­ri­bly much so and that bore bad fruit in my life in the form of need­less suf­fer­ing. I always pon­dered why God had cre­at­ed me in the first place if only to live a banal exis­tence suf­fer­ing, more of it, less of it at some points where­as dis­trac­tion became my design­er drug. I would lose myself in books, in art, in poet­ry and dal­liance. I quick­ly cul­ti­vat­ed a lust for wine and beer, and my friends were noth­ing short of slaves of wine and spir­its. How quick­ly they dis­persed and van­ished like a fart in the wind when things became real, when sober and faced with hav­ing to live like men. I quick­ly real­ized I wasn’t one of them, who sought liq­uid courage to live, to deal with emo­tion­al weight­i­ness of real­i­ty and exist­ing. I sup­pose read­ing far too much for my own good had cat­a­pult­ed me in a lit­er­ary world I pre­ferred exist­ing in, one where romance and pro­found epic sto­ries hap­pened reg­u­lar­ly. How could mere mor­tal man not choose to sub­mit to that milieu of pro­found poet­ry ? Why would you set­tle for the noth­ing­ness of infe­ri­or mind­ed men, dead men who loved death and shunned the ele­ments of life ?

Despite all of my intel­lec­tu­al prowess and cre­ativ­i­ty, I too had suf­fered from a lack of matu­ri­ty on some scale. I was far too pride­ful, cocky, and brash, heed­less of those I left in my wake that I had wronged on some lev­el whether in friend­ship or in affairs of the heart. I nev­er real­ly hon­est­ly respect­ed women or their emo­tions, see­ing them as objects of car­nal­i­ty designed to to be treach­er­ous temptress­es. They only sought to annoy and irri­tate the souls and minds of men or to detract them from their des­tinies, to mock them or hate them with a sense of jus­ti­fi­ca­tion. Yet women, espe­cial­ly in this day and age chased after van­i­ty and in doing so became slaves of it. They were com­plete­ly igno­rant of things of romance, only equat­ing it with sta­tus and the trap­pings of suc­cess, yet nev­er hav­ing the soul with to detect poten­tial­i­ty for wealth. Mind you that ever mega mil­lion­aire and rich­er than rich per­son was once a noth­ing.

Leave a Reply