Monologue
So, yeah, I don't know why, but i'm kind of driven to write some kind of random inspired post. I don't know, I hate the idea of hearing "poor little emo boy" writing some new post about the lack of love he feels constantly and how poor of an existence he has, but, I wanted to write something. I'm not even sure if this random something will be more than the failed attempt of a guy to translate his emotions eloquently from the muck, mire and malaise of what he describes as the human condition.
I guess i try and look too deeply at times. At myself, noticing the ignorance and ill-graces of humanity, and attemtpting to look at them with eyes glazed in naivite, judging myself and looking for the spots in my life where i've been equally ignorant, for the ill-graces and trespasses that i've committed in thought or action or lack thereof. The lack of faith i show in my fellow man is reciprocated and modeled in the lack of faith in myself. I attempt to hold "fortune favors the bold" as a life philosphy. However, i rarely take advantage of the situations placed in front of me, affording borrowed time to gamble on the hopes that in the next round i'll be dealt a winning hand, but noticing in retrospect that I had just passed up a wonderful hand, or (in the more common instance) neglecting to even take part in the round, succumbing the path of the pusillanimous and never tasting greatness or anything beyond a state of contentment. A pathetic state that i tend to find myself stuck in for some unknown reason, despite my love of chaos and participating in whatever random event i can construct.
To hate, to love, to hurt, to rise, to fall, all of the most generic emotions from which beauty arise. The yin and the yang in the most universal of constants...no rise without an equally impressive fall. Perhaps indirectly, but in some aspect of life. Without pain, there is no pleasure, without anguish, no happiness, and without that pain and anguish no motive to create or name beauty. What would poetics be without a strong basis in pain, but a fluttering utterance, held contemptibly and unbeknownst in the heart of every person. The conundrum may lie in the ignorance. Whether darkness came before the light, whether beauty before the pain, and what the first, in its birth, it named itself.
Sigh, as my eloquence fails me, i suppose i'll end this rant...not for the looming end to my preferably extensive knowledge of the vernacular, but rather for fear of redundancy and boredom. Meh, the truth of this matter is, more than likely, you won't read this post, or read it with any particular seriousness or sympathy, if sympathy were at all possible with the content. In fact, I expect everyone to glaze over it, or read it with a distinct confusion, apathy, condescension, or some mixture of the three.
I guess i try and look too deeply at times. At myself, noticing the ignorance and ill-graces of humanity, and attemtpting to look at them with eyes glazed in naivite, judging myself and looking for the spots in my life where i've been equally ignorant, for the ill-graces and trespasses that i've committed in thought or action or lack thereof. The lack of faith i show in my fellow man is reciprocated and modeled in the lack of faith in myself. I attempt to hold "fortune favors the bold" as a life philosphy. However, i rarely take advantage of the situations placed in front of me, affording borrowed time to gamble on the hopes that in the next round i'll be dealt a winning hand, but noticing in retrospect that I had just passed up a wonderful hand, or (in the more common instance) neglecting to even take part in the round, succumbing the path of the pusillanimous and never tasting greatness or anything beyond a state of contentment. A pathetic state that i tend to find myself stuck in for some unknown reason, despite my love of chaos and participating in whatever random event i can construct.
To hate, to love, to hurt, to rise, to fall, all of the most generic emotions from which beauty arise. The yin and the yang in the most universal of constants...no rise without an equally impressive fall. Perhaps indirectly, but in some aspect of life. Without pain, there is no pleasure, without anguish, no happiness, and without that pain and anguish no motive to create or name beauty. What would poetics be without a strong basis in pain, but a fluttering utterance, held contemptibly and unbeknownst in the heart of every person. The conundrum may lie in the ignorance. Whether darkness came before the light, whether beauty before the pain, and what the first, in its birth, it named itself.
Sigh, as my eloquence fails me, i suppose i'll end this rant...not for the looming end to my preferably extensive knowledge of the vernacular, but rather for fear of redundancy and boredom. Meh, the truth of this matter is, more than likely, you won't read this post, or read it with any particular seriousness or sympathy, if sympathy were at all possible with the content. In fact, I expect everyone to glaze over it, or read it with a distinct confusion, apathy, condescension, or some mixture of the three.