And then He Wrote

Confusion fills the air as tiny little particles of doubt stick onto the dirt of laziness. The formation of a cloud, imminent. The cone of vision becomes hazy as a familiar but still discomforting fog moves in. If those despicable creations of the Rowling woman: dementors, were real even they could not precipitate such depths. A small sense of false pride rises from the spewing of dark and predictably disturbed words. To the average person there is great emotion in the sentences that were just written, a sense of chaotic poeticism so often found in the misunderstood. Many others are charged with the task of misunderstanding the writer.

What is fanning the winds of unease? A void, if history is any guide. When there is the sudden removal of immediate purpose due to the unofficial resignation from one’s daily duties there is that inevitable emptiness. A deep, dark, all engulfing hollow. One which is fueled py unpredictability and drinks from the soul plagued with indecisiveness. A known cure for such depression is of course discipline and regularity and generally adding a routine to life. Such a pursuit often ends up in the chase of a physique or some similar self-correcting endeavor. As you might imagine the process of changing oneself while rewarding is tedious and is based on the premise that what you do is for a cause. That you shall be a better something at the end of the ordeal than what you were before making the unfortunate decision in partaking in it. The recognition of such an improvement requires a degree of optimism, one to acknowledge and appreciate the slightest shift in a direction perceived as positive.

Unfortunately such a sense of outright enthusiasm towards a promise of the future might not be in one’s nature to savor. After all if bad taste and the passionate romance with ignorance can hide under the thin guise of personal preference, can not cynicism? It thus is possible that while regular exercise, punctuality and general conformation might seem like reasonable solutions to one’s current state of painful nothingness; they hold very little appeal over all. The value of health is never difficult to appreciate but when pitted against the seduction of inactivity, it pales. Let alone the uncharacteristic physical activity, even mental exercise has taken a back seat in these dark times. There was a period when the churning out of half a dozen mediocre to decent writings per week, was common. When the brain did not limit itself it to the bargains of daily existence but ventured into the quest of some semblance of knowledge.

This last complaint is perhaps the most deadly of all, the abandonment of penning one’s thoughts down. Given the lives we lead and the kind of intellectual exposure we offer each other, self-reflection is one of the better sources of actually moving minds. Filling out a blog post or the back of an envelope with meandering prose is often an ideal way of producing something of value. So the fact that I don’t feel so inclined to write as often as I did is scary. There is of course a lot to write about, more than there was before (due to the passage of time) and yet the need seems to elude me. With a growing populous, no one man is burdened with the task of chronicling the present before it becomes history. The idea that if not I then someone else might, seems justified. Yet here we are, me churning out certain gibberish and you dear reader reading this till the end, hoping to find that sadly absent sense in this piece.

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