Don’t let the title frighten you, this post isn’t an autobiography.
I’ve done this before. There have been innumerable journals, hidden blogs, recorded thoughts on scraps of paper… some have survived the purge that often follows a creative spell, many have not. This is not one of those attempts.
I’m forcing my own hand here to create a ritual as well as a paper trail.
As much as possible, I have a morning routine; there’s a cup of coffee, there’s a cigarette, there’s a brief pouring over a website or two that inevitably plant an urgent seed of thought and then… liftoff. I’m typing.
More often than not, I’ll burn what inspiration there is, stare at the words on the screen and then close the window. “What’s the point?”, I ask myself. “Meh.”, I respond in agreement.
No save, no send.
And that’s probably a good thing.
The world is filled with rantings and proclamations; do I really have anything notable to add? At the same time, my window is closing and I recognize that. That recognition stokes a weak flame; I do have something to say.
It’s a mess though. There are fragments of conversations best held with ghosts, observations on the human condition, recognition of personal failings. I don’t know how to arrange it in any kind of cognitive order and I don’t have anyone to share them with. Or, at least, I always seem to share the wrong ones with the wrong people.
And that’s a problem for me, especially these days. The lid is either capped so tightly that no essence of myself is present, or it escapes without filter and woe be on the poor sod within earshot.
Because the nature of discourse is engrained in our species. We agree on the rules by participation and we fact check in conversation and dialogue because we are a social creatures by nature’s own design; yet, it is not uncommon to live behind a veil of silence, or to maintain a perfunctory relationship with the world around us.
We are known by our daily masks, our intentional affect. What happens when those things are in opposition with our true nature? What sadder and lonelier memory do we leave behind when it is an intentional lie?
BECAUSE thou hast the power and own’st the grace To look through and behind this mask of me (Against which years have beat thus blanchingly With their rains), and behold my soul’s true face, The dim and weary witness of life’s race,— Because thou hast the faith and love to see, Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy, The patient angel waiting for a place In the new Heavens,—because nor sin nor woe, Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighborhood, Nor all which others viewing, turn to go, Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,— Nothing repels thee, … Dearest, teach me so To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good! Elizabeth Barrett Browning
So… I’m going to start a journey because I am tired of just staring at my bags.