“Buckin’ Muck Fulligan..”. He was obviously a little agitated, and confused. Ulysses was the recent topic of discussion; you know, Joyce? And what else would you expect working in a psych ward.. I mean, have you read it? Phineas Poe told him about it, the crazy nut. Actually, there had been word of it from scholars and other pretentious hipster-types who liked challenging pieces of literature to read (because it makes them feel edgy). We all have something to prove, don’t we?
I guess I should take the time to explain who him is. Notice it’s not capitalized, because it’s not that Him; him. Shane. Me. It happens that I sometimes talk about myself in the third person; not really sure as to why that is, though… It’s probably not life threatening but thanks for the concern ahead of time, just in case it is.
So I’m writing a book, or in the process of writing one, and it’s just not as easy as it seems, let me tell you. It’s never been very becoming of me to make up stories with elaborate plots, because really, I lack the imagination for that; the certain type required, that is. I’ll likely never create life on a planet like Arrakis or spin epic tales of Middle Earth but one thing I do have is the incredible ability to point out the obvious. Well, what’s obvious to me anyhow, so that’s what I’ll do.
Reality is often kooky enough that you can make a really neat story out of it; I’m living it every day, and so are you. You just may not be aware of it. You’re in it right now, in fact. It’s not witchcraft, it’s fictional reality (thank Slayer for that one). But on a serious note, we’re in this together, you and I.
Let’s get started.
There are many forks in the road but they all eventually lead you back to yourself, whoever that would be at the time (as in the present). I’m almost 30 years in, and the changes are beginning to take place. I can feel them, subtle yet gross; the return of Saturn in all her Copernican glory. She’s returned to teach a very important lesson but I never excelled at doing my homework, so I might be in a slight bit of trouble here; I really would not care to repeat the last 30 years over again. Not that they were bad, it would just be nice to have learned all the hard lessons and passed the test with flying colors now. Life.
Some call it karma, others call it, well, whatever. There is always some consequence, perceivably good or bad, to each and every decision or choice we make in life; you know the story. Some people just can’t get out of their own way; some of the time I am this person. Some don’t produce enough forward motion to even have a way, just floating along eating bits of particulates and gorging on sunshine; most of the time this is where I’m at but everything grows into something, and it’s not always bad, so I try not to get too down on myself anymore and just keep making some semblance of forward motion.
This does not, however, necessarily constitute as having learned a hard life lesson; for that, it’s the big things in life we have to look at, such as why you might always have the tendency to drink a little too much when you go out, knowing you have to drive, or who you associate with. Even what brand of toilet paper you buy or the way wipe your ass could mean the difference between loving yourself and just not giving a shit; or, also, it could possibly just be that toilet paper is not really something that important to most people. And in essence, it’s not; what I’m trying to get across is that nothing is so small that it is inconsequential, and to overlook even the smallest things is to overlook certain aspects of yourself.
It’s our minds that are sick, not the world; what we see and know of it acts only as a mirror, of sorts. You know, like the old saying “you get out of it what you put into it”; that kind of thing. Sure, it’s fucked (the “world”) but we do it to ourselves nine times out of ten; it becomes a problem of an inaccurate perception then, a choice of living malevolently, not towards everyone else necessarily, but yourself.
Think things are bad on the outside? Try looking into the hearts of man, or your own. Your true self, especially the ugly parts you know you can’t run away from (permanently). That’s where the real terror lies. That’s also where the conclusion is reached that it’s useless to fight it. That helpless feeling? That’s the battle waged between reality and the idealistic ego; it’s telling you that something’s wrong, and you know it is because you can feel it but it’s ominous in its omissions and you never quite get the full picture until it’s too late: Things tend to reveal themselves to us once we’ve dropped our preconceptions of them.
A mind has to want to change, the owner of the mind has to want to change it. And it’s a lot of work. It’s a lot of damn work.
I thought about writing a book; instead I’m left with what’s turning out to be the memoir of a life not yet lived. Happens. But having a creatively neurotic, slightly overactive imagination is not the worst thing that can happen to you, oh no. For that, the prize goes to becoming aware of this fact, and trying to go on leading a socially accepted version of what a normal life is every day. At first, reality loses a bit of its lustre, and there’s usually a very dark period that comes when one is being wrenched out of their little sleepy dreams and into the big, bad world.
Now, by this point you’re probably wondering just what the F am I babbling on about, and is there any purpose to all this nonsense? Well, no. Not really. I mean, there is but it follows its own formula generally but it’ll all make sense in the end.. Hopefully. I mean, give me a break; none of the writers I look up to put out all zingers; this is the awkward creative adolescent phase I’m stumbling through and will continue to until I’m about 87, when, I will have produced my life’s work. Hopefully.
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