Monday,
August 25, 2008 at 5:49am
I can't remember a
night where I haven't sat up, stared into space, and thought about
everything. It's so quiet in my world. I'm never quite sure of what
to say or do about it. I feel like everything I've ever done has been
in spite of something or particularly someone. There is no one drive
or voice that compels me to achieve or want anything “more.” I've
always just been making choices, and the world has reacted around me.
When you feel like you could become anything, then what are you? If every emotion is a choice, how empty does the notion of following your heart become? Maybe the value comes from choice in and of itself. If that choice comes from the same empty and impartial place, no dignity really remains in it. I prepare for my choices to disappoint me in advance. I can't be let down nor surprised because I've settled on an inability to trust anybody or anything. Any one moment could be your last is not just an ominous cliché, but something I actively try to prepare for. I watch as the guy speeding to the red light barrels into my car sending my skull through the widow. I stand in front of the desperate gunman as his eyes lock in telling me I'm gone before he's pulled the trigger. I don't believe it's crazy to just think like this as a matter of fact. I don't feel depressed by it, I don't feel scared. I just acknowledge it, and it leaves me empty.
I don't know how to feel about growing accustomed to this emptiness. I can still find the greatest joy in laughing about, lets simply say "inappropriate," things. I love to get lost in stories and movies, and the right song at the right time is practically surreal. But what is the emptiness? I'm not even eager to fill it. I speculate that this is the sort of thing mothers try to fill by having a child. Do they not realize they've just created a mini them? If there wasn't a way to fill it prior to a genetic copy of yourself, you've only doubled your problem. Maybe I'm just confused about the feeling. Perhaps when some grand epiphany is reached the idle person within will flow like the Amazon. No, that seems too dramatic.
“Maybe you just have a lack of God, Nick!” Because I'm sure someone is thinking it. Short answer, tried that, didn't work, you’re wrong. Maybe the notion of “purpose” has been so dramatically emphasized within our psyches and society, that by the time we've evolved enough to understand the futility in looking for one, it leaves an artificial hole. Now this, I find intriguing and frankly am kinda proud I just came up with that. Given that our minds can and do play all kinds of tricks we generally ignore, why is it so far-fetched to think I've simply come to acknowledge this one? The plain truth, is that I recognize my life to be simply amazing as well as fulfilling, and reflect on it constantly. Given that I have no emotional attachment to this hole, nor any logical reason that could reinforce it, I almost certainly have to accept it as an anomalous pitfall of my psyche.
How peculiar.
In truth, I feel as if my main agenda to make money is to stifle boredom. I want to put my “I'm good at everything” abilities to the test, and be able to compete in a myriad of sports, learn all kinds of skills, and essentially master as many things as I can. I love to show off, and my house would be the perfect archetype to insight “wow,” “are you serious,” and “I never would've imagined” comments. I want to activate minds. I'd love to be a source of inspiration by exhausting every faculty I had towards expressing artistically what I never feel I get right in words. I can only be me, and if it comes at the expense of others I can't find sympathy. I know that any time I've felt abused for something, I made the choice to go along. Those that can realize this are no longer being abused and those feelings become unjustifiable. We're all fated to live at the expense of one another anyway, and focusing it doesn't make it anymore “wrong or right.”
Now I suppose I can reveal to you my secret quest to find “real” people to travel with me on this adventurous life. So cliché no? So real, that they have become like minded, not because they emulate me or my actions, but because they've come to the same sort of understanding. What makes me constitute myself as real? One word, honesty. It isn't hard to recognize fake and shell people, and it hasn't been hard for me to recognize and relate with the real ones. This might help you understand why I force myself into discussions with the religious. I'm ever searching for that real person to come out and show themselves to themselves. That, and it's very rarely a boring endeavor. I think the bloggers who read over their work forty times before they publish it, and constantly change words so as to weed out any hint of bullshit or misunderstanding, are pushing themselves to that kind of honesty. If it takes fifty comments for you to believe in what you’re saying, give up.
Giving up. Something many people need to properly take part in.
When you feel like you could become anything, then what are you? If every emotion is a choice, how empty does the notion of following your heart become? Maybe the value comes from choice in and of itself. If that choice comes from the same empty and impartial place, no dignity really remains in it. I prepare for my choices to disappoint me in advance. I can't be let down nor surprised because I've settled on an inability to trust anybody or anything. Any one moment could be your last is not just an ominous cliché, but something I actively try to prepare for. I watch as the guy speeding to the red light barrels into my car sending my skull through the widow. I stand in front of the desperate gunman as his eyes lock in telling me I'm gone before he's pulled the trigger. I don't believe it's crazy to just think like this as a matter of fact. I don't feel depressed by it, I don't feel scared. I just acknowledge it, and it leaves me empty.
I don't know how to feel about growing accustomed to this emptiness. I can still find the greatest joy in laughing about, lets simply say "inappropriate," things. I love to get lost in stories and movies, and the right song at the right time is practically surreal. But what is the emptiness? I'm not even eager to fill it. I speculate that this is the sort of thing mothers try to fill by having a child. Do they not realize they've just created a mini them? If there wasn't a way to fill it prior to a genetic copy of yourself, you've only doubled your problem. Maybe I'm just confused about the feeling. Perhaps when some grand epiphany is reached the idle person within will flow like the Amazon. No, that seems too dramatic.
“Maybe you just have a lack of God, Nick!” Because I'm sure someone is thinking it. Short answer, tried that, didn't work, you’re wrong. Maybe the notion of “purpose” has been so dramatically emphasized within our psyches and society, that by the time we've evolved enough to understand the futility in looking for one, it leaves an artificial hole. Now this, I find intriguing and frankly am kinda proud I just came up with that. Given that our minds can and do play all kinds of tricks we generally ignore, why is it so far-fetched to think I've simply come to acknowledge this one? The plain truth, is that I recognize my life to be simply amazing as well as fulfilling, and reflect on it constantly. Given that I have no emotional attachment to this hole, nor any logical reason that could reinforce it, I almost certainly have to accept it as an anomalous pitfall of my psyche.
How peculiar.
In truth, I feel as if my main agenda to make money is to stifle boredom. I want to put my “I'm good at everything” abilities to the test, and be able to compete in a myriad of sports, learn all kinds of skills, and essentially master as many things as I can. I love to show off, and my house would be the perfect archetype to insight “wow,” “are you serious,” and “I never would've imagined” comments. I want to activate minds. I'd love to be a source of inspiration by exhausting every faculty I had towards expressing artistically what I never feel I get right in words. I can only be me, and if it comes at the expense of others I can't find sympathy. I know that any time I've felt abused for something, I made the choice to go along. Those that can realize this are no longer being abused and those feelings become unjustifiable. We're all fated to live at the expense of one another anyway, and focusing it doesn't make it anymore “wrong or right.”
Now I suppose I can reveal to you my secret quest to find “real” people to travel with me on this adventurous life. So cliché no? So real, that they have become like minded, not because they emulate me or my actions, but because they've come to the same sort of understanding. What makes me constitute myself as real? One word, honesty. It isn't hard to recognize fake and shell people, and it hasn't been hard for me to recognize and relate with the real ones. This might help you understand why I force myself into discussions with the religious. I'm ever searching for that real person to come out and show themselves to themselves. That, and it's very rarely a boring endeavor. I think the bloggers who read over their work forty times before they publish it, and constantly change words so as to weed out any hint of bullshit or misunderstanding, are pushing themselves to that kind of honesty. If it takes fifty comments for you to believe in what you’re saying, give up.
Giving up. Something many people need to properly take part in.
Updated
about 2 months ago
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