(no subject)
Life is primarily a tool for the exploration of ideas.
I don't mean for everyone, obviously; for some, life is a vehicle for experiential experimentation. They live to do.
For me, however, it seems that I live primarily to think. Unlike some others, I cannot ponder and visualize in a vacuum; I need to be able to see my ideas begun to be played out--whether this is through discussion, writing, play-acting, or some other form of implementation it matters little.
Thus, I am not truly a writer; I don't live for the pleasure of authorship (though I often find that I need the tools of a writer to develop thoughts beyond a rudimentary stage). I am not truly an actor; I have neither the talent nor the desire to entertain or relate through pantomime (though acting drama and video provide other tools to convey thoughts I find interesting, and a safe place to play out potentially volatile or questionable situations). I am not even truly a do-er of deeds; in fact, I sometimes think that the only time I accomplish something is when I either get caught up in an idea being carried out, or I am "forced into the corner", so to speak, by the actions of others.
Now my mind begins to ponder the question of design: am I how I am supposed to be, or am I a corruption of the ideal?
I don't know the answer to this question. I don't know the answer to so many questions. Sometimes this fact rankles me; sometimes it fills me with inexpressible feelings of inadequacy or sadness. Sometimes I am able to accept it as truth, and not a judgment.
I ramble much, but little of value is spoken. Let me turn my mind to other things.
I don't mean for everyone, obviously; for some, life is a vehicle for experiential experimentation. They live to do.
For me, however, it seems that I live primarily to think. Unlike some others, I cannot ponder and visualize in a vacuum; I need to be able to see my ideas begun to be played out--whether this is through discussion, writing, play-acting, or some other form of implementation it matters little.
Thus, I am not truly a writer; I don't live for the pleasure of authorship (though I often find that I need the tools of a writer to develop thoughts beyond a rudimentary stage). I am not truly an actor; I have neither the talent nor the desire to entertain or relate through pantomime (though acting drama and video provide other tools to convey thoughts I find interesting, and a safe place to play out potentially volatile or questionable situations). I am not even truly a do-er of deeds; in fact, I sometimes think that the only time I accomplish something is when I either get caught up in an idea being carried out, or I am "forced into the corner", so to speak, by the actions of others.
Now my mind begins to ponder the question of design: am I how I am supposed to be, or am I a corruption of the ideal?
I don't know the answer to this question. I don't know the answer to so many questions. Sometimes this fact rankles me; sometimes it fills me with inexpressible feelings of inadequacy or sadness. Sometimes I am able to accept it as truth, and not a judgment.
I ramble much, but little of value is spoken. Let me turn my mind to other things.