most of the recent pseudo-engagements i find conveniently crossing my path aren’t terribly difficult to discount. they are nearly annoyances that pester my social personality and inhibit my ability accurately render that image. however, i do find a fascination with the occasional unique circumstance. i often find some degree of humor therein as well, but only in hopes of averting my own mental train of thought. the self-targeted laugh can—at times—distract and entice away from the path at hand. in these circumstances, that path is one i don’t trod happily, but rather find myself being submissively led along, chained in my own bleak perception of that path itself.

these singularities, for lack of a better defensive term, inspire just as they imprison. the paralysis i don’t cry over so much as i mourn the loss of so much of that creativity. it dies in its own vacuum, consumed in the very moment of conception. few notice, far fewer understand.

so frustrating and tragic for so many to preoccupy themselves with the pursuit of endless shallow experiences when they fail to recognize the value of limitless depth in a single experience. they fret and fawn over the whole of the sky above, yet are oblivious to the stars and heavens beneath the very gaze before them. beneath that gaze, behind the spark. the intent. the bottomless, endless challenges and rewards and the reward of the challenge itself. they seem content, these people, to move onto the next after each new surface is scratched. in this, they seek to scratch an itch of their own; one which cannot ever be stilled.

being aware is a blessed curse (for what purpose i have yet to uncover or employ) to the end that may not allow itself to be reached.

the things which are most genuine and wonderful to notice are the most terrible and difficult to acknowledge. a better plan might be the humor prescribed before. that which should be a joy is a menace and those things which should be the sweetest on the ears are heralds of self-mockery.

all for what? i don’t chance a guess. though it has been proposed to me that these things all serve(d) to prod and poke my naturally peaceful mind in a way intended to evoke an outpouring of creation. that outpouring has become a tidal wave so void of reason or application that it has itself built to serve as its own form or torment. atop the swell or grief and delight interwoven into a perversion of beauty and elegance, now there stirs and ominous form, dwarfing and yet emphasizing its own origin. that stagnation of expression sews a cacophony of dissonance in the fold of coordination that should be the harmonious harvest of my own self—tears of my soul, be they jouful, tragic, or numb. it should be, but it is not so, unfortunately. it is miserable. perhaps i am a miser.