The start of any written diatribe begins with a premise. A thought. The recounting of a connective incident that presages a more dramatic situation. Something that in the good graces of modern writing, catches the reader’s attention. The buzzwords employed, the pattern and order of contemporary patou suitable devices to immediately gain respect of the casual reader. The motivation in the purest form of same being simply a nagging desire to share a story. If the need is to show proficiency as a recognized topical expert is eliminated, or to gain intellectual stature the sorry is interrupted or possible interfered with.
The point to get to with this particular outlay of typical possibilities being that after a number of decades of similar interaction, tracking my desire to express over a variety of similar cultural landscapes, I believe that all of this effort may be wasted simply on the trivial? The repeated exercise of self-expression can act equally as much a filter as an inclusive invitation? The think out the reasonability of one’s own daily patterns of thought as they relate to a specific direction. It can’t be a great secret that one tends to run one’s self into a deeper rut as the years progress. One’s personality picks up positive momentum through the middle part of their existence bounding over crisis after the crisis. Yet it is in the nature of the larger beast of exterior society to eventually devour all hope and possibility of most of it’s inhabitants simply as a matter of the relative degree of fitness and remaining abilities for self-maintenance.
Though I only know my own darkened cathedral, I would imagine that every member of the human species must periodically default to their inner selves. As one travels down the reverse slope of physical existence it becomes both apparent and inevitable that their own essence as they know it will be forced into that inner cavern as its only acceptable form of final refuge from an ongoing institutional worldly divestment. The larger unanswerable questions of existence begin to nag the good faith attempt for closer review. The ‘why’s’ and ‘wherefore’s’ of destiny and fate. The definition of happiness versus strife. The ultimate destination of one’s consciousness posed in its root conundrum of what occasioned a start to begin with? Perhaps, like the one final deep breath of a drowning man a feeling of a euphoric conjunction with an indefinable universal consensus before the coming terminal blackout.
Having said all this, the major dilemmas of the material external realm diminish to an insignificant ebb. Like an amorphous cloak obscuring one’s face from immediate public identification, I sense its definition being close by within the room, just simply overlooked. Classic Existentialism reverting to basic apparent verifiable truths only extent in the single minded moment to moment of the present. The only consistent factor being the attempt of one’s memory to collect them. Thus, it seems we slip away equally from what we call ourselves with equal regularity into a newly conceived person who calls upon their collection of recollections for the authority of defining purpose. The only other governing influence being animal instincts for the cycle of nourishment, shelter and defense.