do you believe what you tell yourself is not an excuse what is said like skeletons flesh thrown on animation do you distrust what you do not say lingering like a wound or forgetful deeds breathed into air have you created things that make you do things that give you easy reasons why or maybe still cold rain touching skin feels like first bloom? i hope so
People try finding meaning in all the little things they do. I used to think that.
The sometimes overwhelming number of disparate issues in our lives that press for our acceptance or resolution, like so many signposts speaking to the better parts of ourselves, came together as the great tome, etched in heavy stone within the temples we keep hidden from others within.
Hard for us to see. Yet always insistent at our core. I believed people looked for meaning in all the little things they do.
But this isn’t so. It was my hopefulness obscuring a measurable reality. A reality that isolated me.
People do not look for meaning. People actively avoid meaning. Instead, they fill the intolerable blankness of uncertainty with reasons. Thousands of reasons, in all directions. They become lifted up and contained within their lives, defining themselves by the choices they make or the various things that happen to them from outside. They become lives of cause and effect, both within and without.
They wish to control this. Many wish to control others to help justify themselves. Meaning becomes a hindrance to the seemingly tangible facilities of reasons. Meaning is always never quite there, it’s off to the side, it’s deeper than we can comprehend. Meaning is not the way things are. Usually. Some few will allow some meaning in. Little bits, here and there. But it is always a danger, and it is to be guarded. Like a star that swallows its own light.
I do know that our own private temples exist. Each of us does. Upon that great stone tome within is written, in just a few lines, the words that destroy us. The thousands of reasons, like vines and weeds grow over this, obscuring. And when we begin to see, nevertheless, we purposefully cultivate a thousand more weeds, sometimes in a panic, to cover the fear of that which is greater, within us.
There is a very old, relatively speaking, argument between Philosophers and Psychologists. For the most part I believe it is only resolved in part by Poets. It has to do with limitations. And it has to do with the fear of the unknown. And it has to do with living within the situations we find ourselves in relation to the world. And more than anything it has to do with what kind of hope or doom there is for us.
It reminds me of the quiet friend who baited me with cookies and took me to a movie about the end of the world. I love you, by the way.
It reminds me of schizophrenics, M-theory and behavioral therapy.
It reminds me of the sad, yet neurotically happy married men I’ve been with.
It reminds me of my bother-in-law’s sweet and wonderful dog that is unaccustomed to being listened to, which apparently wreaks havoc in discipline.
It reminds me of religious or controlling people who like to be â€œnastyâ€? or â€œnaughtyâ€? and pee on each other.
But more than anything it reminds me of the bright eyes of the people I meet who have not yet made up their minds, yet are very much aware.
I’ve never been very good at common sense. After all, it is common. Perhaps that is just an excuse I make for myself. But I can recognize it. And I often rely upon it in others, within the context of our collective construction we’ve built.
So, I’m not exactly criticizing…
But does that explain what we do not hear when all around us is silent? Does it explain why we need some music, the TV on, to hear the sound of voices other than our own, defining us?
Does it explain the impossible joy felt when something we are, becomes us?