Feb 8, 2006

I stumbled into a profoundly introspective state of mind this evening. This is worth noting because I haven't felt quite so deeply reflective in several weeks. The routine of everyday living, to phrase it so dreadfully, has been full of distractions and obligations that have demanded my attention to thrash about upon the surface. The hullabaloo of job hunting and adjusting to a changing lifestyle has left relatively few opportunities for me to dive below the superficial layers into more extraordinary depths of self-discovery and spiritual awareness. A mentally productive stroll beneath the moon tonight, though, roused the deeply contemplative side of me from its slumber.

I remember when the occasion wasn't so rare that I would write multi-page journal entries recalling an outdoor adventure of mine or personal discovery in exquisite detail, or ranting passionately about one subject or another. I poured my heart and soul into composing such entries.

Nowadays, my journal contributions generally seem so much more "matter-of-fact" and less... speculative and questioning. I am not certain what to attribute this to. Perhaps I sub-consciously write much more for an audience than for myself, as I used to. I know plain facts interest most readers, but maybe not so much extended ramblings about what my deepest ponderings. I perceive such entries as radiating heavy conceit, as in, "this wingnut just can't stop going on and on about himself and what he thinks, can he?" After all, what does it matter what I think? The issue of self-worth may be coming into play here.

I really feel as if I have something interesting and substantial to say to the world, but I am often unsure as to whether I should go out on a limb and say it. Much less effort is required in simply keeping it to myself, but many things I simply yearn to share, be it a beautiful photograph or a deeply personal story. Maybe I'm just not sure how far I should go in expressing myself. How much is the reader willing and able to understand?

I simply feel as if I don't put enough of my heart into my entries, these days. Then again, I could say the same for most other people whose journals I keep up with, and I have realised I -am- influenced by them to some significant degree. I suppose for most an online journal is just a place to inform their friends, acquaintances, and family about recent events in their lives and keep them updated, but I have always viewed my writing space as something more than that.

A great irony is this: I am usually so quiet, yet am always so full of words begging to be spoken or written down in speech or poetry or prose. My mind is usually pulling in several different directions at once, and my train of thought has no caboose and is like a speeding bullet. Considering how I seem to think and feel on such an incredibly deep level, it's a wonder I handle the world and all its bewildering stimuli as well as I do... I will admit that it drags me out to the realm of emotional breakdowns at times, but that's nothing unique. They have to happen. They are all part of the balance.

It's so easy to make convictive statements that turn out to be entirely untrue. The mind is never made up for long when it comes to most things. The light of contentedness is nearly impossible to be seen in a period of deep depression, yet it may be witnessed again in a matter of hours. We are trained to view things through continuity, when time is nothing but another human contrivance. Perceptions of the dazzling stimuli presented by the world are viewed through so many cognitive filters, and mental and emotional states that are constantly fluctuating, that The Truth is undoubtedly much too simple for any of us to comprehend. I can hardly see past my own mind, but then, that's where the entire world I perceive exists. Row, row, row your boat, life is but a dream.

Words are so easily minced, interpreted, and turned against the speaker for one purpose or another. The best drug for you is the drug you don't consume. That could be applied metaphorically to an illimitable amount of situations. In a way, my quietness is my defense. After all, what do I know? Absolutely nothing. Yet, finding a way to shape these complicated reflections into words is one of the greatest forms of release. There's no doubt in my mind all of existence is built on a paradox. **Shakes his head and whimpers** "To know, is to know that you know nothing." How am I expected to keep my brain from fizzling out over a statement like that? That's why I didn't want to major in philosophy. I would have pulled all my fur out in anguish by the time I had earned my degree.

Sorry, I just had to let all that out. So, how about them fax machine anthems?

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