Helloooo! Unfortunate soul who happened to stumble upon my humble internet abode, I’ve missed sinking my metaphorical brain teeth into you.
Wow, that came out way weirder than I intended it to…but there are enough parties out there who will try to censor my thoughts for me, there’s no reason I should do it to myself. Therefore, the creepy metaphorical teeth stay.
I’ve been doing a lot of not thinking lately. By that I mean I’ve been doing anything and everything to get as far away as possible from the eight billion random thoughts that choose to stake a claim on my brain at any given second.
Its really easy to be consumed by worry; controlled and driven by it. Anxiety is a construct relatively unique to humans. It depends on our ability to make an abstract concept, in this case time, concrete. Other living organisms live simply to survive, to propagate the existence of their species. As humans though, we have somehow developed the notion that it is not enough to simply exist or to exist simply. For whatever reason, we are driven to thrive, and thus, complicate. This leads to the search for purpose, the desire to build a meaningful life. The problem is that in this world we have given ourselves the illusion of being masters of our own fate. We define our identities and worth based upon accomplishments. We measure accomplishments in terms of material and experiences, and then seek the approval of our peers to confirm that we are “on the right track”.
Who can we trust though, if not ourselves? We hunger for the stamp of approval from whatever outer force, be it bosses, professors, family, or friends. Lately though, I’ve been starting to wonder if I’ve been trying to substitute approval (in effect, love) for happiness (in effect, fulfillment). I worry I may be too impulsive about making changes, I worry about being a disappointment, I worry about not living meaningfully. Now I’m starting to wonder if perhaps these thoughts are telling me that this isn’t the right place for me. If I felt confident about the path I’m on right now, I wouldn’t worry about failing. I’m starting to realize that to me, the journey is more important than the destination. I’m being told to look ahead, but from what I know about myself, I can’t be happy unless I live each day as a crystal clear snapshot of my existence. If I keep living a life the way I feel I’m “supposed” to, I’ll look back on a bunch of the stock photos that come in frames purchased from a department store. I’m sorry, maybe to some people having the means to purchase a fancy gilded frame that society designed and then made 6 billion copies of is satisfying. I’m starting to think that I might be happier building my own, even if that means its made of popsicle sticks and pipe-cleaners. At least it would be mine, authentic and visceral. I would know the story of how each bit of it came to be and could trust what it was capable of, because I knew how it was built. I wouldn’t worry about it not being able to live up to the standards set for it, because I would be the one defining the standards. I would never say “Whoa there Nellie, slow ‘er down! You’re gonna overflow the standard one-size fits all picture frame mold that we are currently using as a metaphor for a socially acceptable formative life path and get the work station (which represents my parents and other institutions in their attempts to raise me into a respectable citizen) all messy”. I would say, “nothing is stopping you from becoming the rhinestone and feather covered piece of art that you instinctively feel is a more valuable contribution to society”(albeit maybe less impressive if measured by the (shallow?) definitions of successful (drone-like) existences created out of convenience), and then I would go out and buy my elmers glue and feathers and start getting my hands dirty.
If you’ve made it this far, congratulations. If you didn’t, I’m going to hot glue some of my rhinestones to your perfectly boring metal frame so I can watch you freak out trying to clean it off and using the guy next doors for a reference of said boring perfection.
If you can’t trust yourself, who can you trust?
If you can’t claim yourself as your own creation, why bother *being* at all? There’s no point in being a copy, especially a shitty one. A copy has no worth, except for what it borrows from its comparison to the original. And who can even pinpoint what the original actually is anymore? Those of us tired of trying to fool ourselves certainly can’t.
So there’s the latest from my pretentious, overactive, rarely satiated mind, folks.
Live long, [create], and prosper.