Kind Words vs. Nerds

You receive instruction to “be yourself.”

Confusion ensues as “yourself” is what you’ve always been. Even as you quote Nietzsche (or quote The Simpsons quoting Nietzsche) and style your hair like Diana Ross, somehow within the conception of follower you are not being “yourself.” You are a far-reaching sampler of both wisdom and cliché, a miniature moral blueprint of your guardians with notes in the margins, and a survivor who seeks social comfort through the intellectual achievements of humanity (and especially through voluminous hair). Now “be yourself” despite the “yourself” you think you’ve always been.

You are forced to consider the following:

Maybe you’ve not been yourself.

Maybe “yourself” is not enough.

Manic

I relax as the world draws me
It’s great to absorb but the slightest bit is still too much
One facet with two eyes can endlessly reflect
Endlessly endlessly
But the point is lost and now I’m in my head

And every ounce of engagement just hurls me further away
Because I take too much when I try to engage
I see that I fail to engage

And if what I crave is propulsion I have to wonder
Should I go less deep or can I push back harder?
Are both sides of this binary powered by the same source?
What runs me?

I know as I stand my energy is just a reflection of the outside.
My thoughts are tributes and my excitement is a sliver

And from this excitement comes a desire to stop
Succeed my hands to express the brilliance not of ME
But the decadence of every and any thing

Maybe you don’t follow
But I never really learned to lead
‘Cause all I make is just the residue

of what
this
world
has
done
to
me

I entertain at best but often feel unnecessary
The thought of being necessary!
To even believe in necessary

(Which requires context more specific than:
“everything in the universe, ever”
And specifics have never been my strength
Because somehow

Everything is a metaphor)

Protected: Eloquence

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Venn Diagram

There are some things I have to say to identify myself. Expectations and observations that inform individuals with similar wavelengths that, “Yes. We are on the same wavelength.”

I am presently more interested in self-preservation and imagination fails to anticipate where pride stops and fear of judgement begins. This premise has kept me afloat but now my urge to dive is relentless. Unfortunately it is still no match for the buoy of not knowing how long I can hold my breath, and fears of inadequacy bob to the surface.

I have nothing more to prove (intellectually) to my speculative cohorts until they find more appropriate answers than “Good question.” I hold my contemplation next to my hedonism, and the latter always seems to triumph in the court of my ultimate rationale. I am unfazed by my own philosophical hypocrisy because I don’t believe that one can be the same person in two distinct instances. The same leniency is granted to my peers but I have no commitment to passivity; I still present argumentative contradictions as one method of interaction knowing that neither of us holds an ounce of truth, but together we can witness it weave strands between our assertions. These strands will not connect us, but our ability to see them will.

No Smoking

Keep looking up. You can trust someone who says you’re a big boy. Everything is complicated, and that’s a grown-up thing to say. Find something you weren’t allowed to have for reasons you didn’t understand. Enjoy this. Be miserable about it. Don’t explain yourself into contradiction, but get close. You’re a grown-up now, and you have the right to be complicated. A grown-up who reaches out for the ambiguity of childhood always returns clutching a pacifier.

Hangover

I dreamed I left for Aachen. I was in the bus with a suitcase and no means of contact to anyone I knew. I was intimidated by not understanding anyone around me.

I think I’m awake. My possessions have started packing themselves. I’m surprised to find out how few of the loose ends were mine. I thought it would be a painstaking ordeal, untangling myself from such a network.

Is life, simply put, the ability to act against advice?

Protected: China Doll

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My World

Any given moment of feeling is my instantaneous world. It changes quickly and varies in intensity; I lose myself and find myself and wander and run. “You,” I might say to the object of my attention, “are my world.”

The night was humid and the clouds were gravid. When the sky opened up, my world was on the patio observing heavy rain. I cannot include the instantaneous world of weather as holding significance over my future. Collectively, I see rain and snow and sun as a constant. There will always be “weather.”

Instantaneous love is something I never shy away from. I’m not disconcerted nor bashful by words that express feelings. Instantaneous love is part of my connection-collective, one feeling to be blended with friendship, rivalry, defensiveness, and all sorts of interactions.

And now… every instant feels like a strand connecting moments of my past and future. I am refining memories by reliving them in slow motion, from different angles, in colour. Even memories from before my new fuel source have been revisited with glorious new contexts and sweet relief. I feel fondness for the outstretching branches of past and future as they carry me through perspective. My world has changed and has been equalized. Interactions, expression, the weather—these are steamrolled into one delicious wave. I surf on my inability to separate or control these thoughts, it is a sea of stars and universality. My world has been simplified and my intentions are clear.

I think I’ve gotten stupid.

High and Dry

I try to avoid songs that bring me down as of recent. If I hear one starting I can run to the iPod and skip it… unless my hands are full. As soon as more than 15 seconds of a song I really like starts playing I either listen to the rest of it or have it stuck in my head all day. High and Dry came on while I was cooking. That was rough. And I liked it.

The whole “emotional stability” thing made it impossible to feel as down as I did today while listening to that song via rediscovered unsteadiness. Now that I’m (once again) capable of intense melancholy, it’s comparable to a strong cup of coffee or bitter, bitter chocolate. I know such robust potency is fleeting, so I savour—rather than endure—it.

It reminds me of the times when I romanticized gloom in my teen years, and expressed it occasionally with how I dressed and the company I kept. Even so, I was excitable and always broke character, over an opportunity to preserve the role. I’m still excitable and don’t see my current feelings as mere theatrics. Instead, I feel as much as I can stand before ejecting the rest into my artistic pursuits.

Superb.

Percent Relief

I left work and it was dark. I feel camaraderie with nightfall (having spent so long being nocturnal). Also, long shifts leave us jaded. I enjoy the idea of working myself to exhaustion, having a tea, and then working some more. Job satisfaction is easy enough with some psychological shortcuts and then I can’t think about much else. This is such bullshit.

I work to exhaustion because I want the money. Psychological shortcuts are still useful and I do find satisfaction in the tasks I perform, but I enjoy my work environment, employers, coworkers, etc… And by the end of the day, I’ve gotten some relief from my exhausted “heart” jumping on a trampoline, trying to glimpse over a fence. That fence is the Atlantic Ocean. Let me qualify quantify “some relief.”

ƒ = available cognition
FP = distraction factor
t = hours after starting work

FP = ( 2.2 t + 60 ) %

t1 = 0
FPinitial = 60%
t2 = 9.0
FPfinal = 80%

ƒ = -0.056 t + 1

t1 = 0
ƒinitial = 1.0
t2 = 9.0
ƒfinal = 0.5

( ƒinitial × FPinitial ) − ( ƒfinal × FPfinal ) =  relief
relief = 20%

So feeling slightly relieved, I stopped in a blues bar on the way home and enjoyed the music. I didn’t get charged cover and was almost asked to join onstage for a jam or two. When I informed the bassist that I was inexperienced with a Hammond B3, he understandably withdrew the invitation. This was a relief, considering the caliber of musician I was dealing with: the played-music-more-than-twice-as-long-as-I’ve-been-alive caliber. I was too starstruck (let alone unfamiliar with the instrument) to think about playing.

Whoops. I was going to continue, but it seems ƒ is approaching zero.