To Be Free
I look into the faces of those around me and wonder...
What is it to be content? What is it to be comfortable in ones own skin? For so long now I have been building myself up to be the person everybody loves. You would not think so, but in my own eccentric way I am setting the sights of those around me as someone who knows who they are; as someone with their purpose to be their own.
How must this not be so?
A drop of rain is more sure of itself than I; falling and fading and crashing to the soft or hard surface first found. I am falling, but from where I do not know, and to what I cannot see.
So the question lingering in my brain for so long now it seems is what am I? Surely not that drop of rain, nor the producer of of such drops, nor the receiver of such falls. I beckon all around me time and again fro the answers to my question and there is never a reply. I dare not ask another soul what I myself would rather answer, and yet I cannot answer what I ask. It is frightfully dilemma that occurs within me and I am tired of the trial. It is much more than what I will do in life; the answer to that question is so simple to me: anything. I can do almost anything, and be nearly content in most circumstances. I suppose the question that remains standing is what I mean. What is the worth of a man in the world? If you can answer that, than you surely have my attention as to the arrival of your answer. I see before me great men, not great from their fame, or things they have done. I know they are great through the content of their lives and their relentlessness behind their actions. It's the spin behind the substance that matters the most in life and what you do. More and more lately it seems I find myself explaining my dilemma of cunfusion rather than actually searching for answers.
One could justifiably say that this is a question of meaning in life. I don't care what the meaning of life is, I care what my meaning in life is. I'm not looking for some preordained path I am to walk, or fate, or destiny or any of that other bullshit. I am searching for truth in innocence, and whats behind innocence, and the rest of that glint of white heat surrounding the natural purities of life.
When I speak of my troubles to others, they ask me, "what do you want to do?" and I reply, "everything!" I am spread so thin it isn't even funny. I could think of a hundred lives, all worth living, and instead of choosing one I want them all, and more and more I realize how this cannot be so. So I attach myself to others living lives that I too wish to experience, and for a time it is everything I wished for, but it never lasts. Somtimes its words that I feel are my following, to be a writer and a teacher of that which is timeless and pure. And sometimes it is the raw and unsophisticated essence of music that calls my name; to be on the bank of a muddy river in the middle of the country with nothing but an acoustic guitar and my words and the beautiful notes that fall from my fingers. Or to be a fisherman, free and easy, seaspray from sunrise to sunset. Whatever my endevour, there is great urgency and energy contained in me, and nothing to expel it upon. I often think of my circumstance in relation to time of old. If I were generations before, perhaps I would have been a great explorer, or a pioneer of music or art or war or leadership or something of the sort. These days there is nothing to explore; nothing to conquer. Everything is classified and ordered. Any war waged is out if ignorant and materialistic measures. Literature is dumbed down. Art is for upscale New York assholes full of themselves. I feel as if the greats have come and gone and now have failed in the minds of their contemporaries, of every sort. Does that make my a cynic? Probably so. I have always believed that any answers I must achieve must come from looking inward. When writing, one should not ask others of their criticism, since that is the very thing that is classifying, that is killing the meaning in the first place. Even this blog, this public display of my inner workings is somewhat of a plea for criticism, and in effect is wrong and contrary to my beliefs. And yet here I am...
In the end I will probably be nothing special. I will have spent far too long settled on the porch somewhere rocking back and forth with all these thoughts and ideas until I have resigned myself to whatever answers I am seeking to clarify, leaving out the entire experience. Therein lies the problem: I wish to offer myself and whatever it is of me to more than just a few here and there. I feel there is something of me that is needed in this world to be felt and heard by many. It is not necessarily fame I am seeking, but rather to leave behind what so many of those I have grown to love for their respective endevours have left behind; truth, reality, excellence.
I suppose when one is forced to look at oneself and answer what it is they are, it is a shocking and troublesome task. I am, for the first time in my life, forced to realize what it is I really am, and what I will be, and it is very hard for me to take. That is my current affair.
Then again, why would you care? You have your own life to live.
-C
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