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.
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 ?
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).
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.