He's digging in the can for a piece of trash to chew on. That's his Friday night. And for him it is good. Apart from an old, simplistic anxiety of being separated from mother, or perceived maternal figure anyway, and that passes as soon as it arises in his simple dog mind.
Me, I get to sit in a dimly lit room on the verge of catatonia, trying to figure out what to do between strange, blank gaps in thought. The mind starts to wander of course, in a dark room with nothing to do, no one or nothing to take its attention, and I find myself thinking undesirable things. There seems to be a dividing line somewhere between the happy and unhappy, and when you start to think too much it augments either side that you happen to be on.
I wonder if I should have a drink and forget about it. Or some herb. But that's no longer much of an option without people to enjoy it with. It all comes back to the social core when you are a solitary figure. And I'm burning through these phases like layered elements are burning through their colors, and I wonder which color is left, or if there is another layer under it all, and not simply the end of the kindle.
Each new color seems to be a new solution, a new hope, but it burns itself out and its gone with the others, still there and an option but charred and marred and part of the pool of last resorts. There are some elements that last through the consumption maybe. Love, the hunger for knowledge, the blind wonder in the face of life that never seems to die, the naked instinct to survive that seems innate in all life, to name a few. I suppose these things keep the weary living, and when those fail, extinguishment of course.
But amidst all that I can't help but think of school. Of the work that's due next week, of the school to be attended next month, next year, next two years, and what of a career? And I think about those managers and administrators and vp's and presidents and all the people racing in their shiny cars with their big houses and maybe the part of me that's still civilized (in a modern, material sense) wants that, but even more of me doesn't want it. Because I can't figure out why. Where all this is going. I don't think anybody knows, but most don't have to ask why, and maybe most are wired to somehow understand on a subconscious level, and that's where I fail.
All the media I envelop myself in, all the stories of others, I think part of it is the separation from reality and those anxieties, yeah, but I think another part is to enhance that understanding of why. And then maybe most like to escape the reality, but enrich and encourage what they already understand and don't question in the first place. But still, that's something. I think there's people out there that just aren't sure about it all. I think I know some people like that as a matter of fact and care very much about them and that's something too. There's bindings here and there. That's something.
I'm being very imprecise, very general, I know. It's one of my problems, sure. Flaw, defense mechanism, stylistic pet peeve, call it what you will. But then this isn't an essay either. Writing like this is something. Writing is something. I think I've gotten weary of the whole blog thing, but then I forget just to write for myself and blow off some steam and try to convert this negativity into thoughtful...neutrality at least.
I feel like this is some sort of confession. And then I think, heh, that's not the beginning of it.
