Risen from the ashes of silence. That's one way of describing my return to blogging (after my 40 days in the wilderness).
In a sense, it is almost consequential. Why? Well, at the moment it's pitch dark, with the drowning monotonic screech of crickets, the occasional bark of a lonely dog, and, of course, the breathy mechanical 'respiration' of my computer, all enveloping, intoxicating the atmosphere all around, and in fact perpetuating the inevitable drowsiness I battle.
On the topic, have you had those days when your computer has just been on for days on end, almost wondering, "Boy! I'd be complaining right now!" That's the beauty of machinery. It doesn't necessarily complain (unless perhaps your antivirus is out of date).
So... back to the thought process. I am (so shamelessly) writing as a means of fighting the 'sleep pangs,' which almost ritually come at this very same time EVERY NIGHT... just as sure as the sun doth set.
And so, surrounded by inconceivable clutter all around me in what is the aftermath of my periodic art projects, I lay restless, heavy-eyed and wondering why I, we, have to suffer so much through the (arguably pretentious) drudgery of school and job and family and retirement!
"If only I were my own parent... Oh the things I would do...," I think to myself
In retrospect, and within the orbit of 'If only.." thoughts, I guess I can choose whether to be sad or happy about the outcome, as it is, of my 18 years of 'exo-uterine' (sorry if that sounds too graphic) existence. Yes, a battle is waged almost as soon as we phase out childhood and step into greater self dependence (or, in some cases, independence). A battle between blaming everyone and everything for our seemingly damaged selves... and deciding to love ourselves as we are.
To quote a philosophical prodigy, "You can only reach perfection in the frame of imperfection."
Our world is imperfect and varied. In consequence, t's okay to be you, flaws and all. After all, there was, is, and will certainly never be another you.
Anyway, there's a lot to say and express... as you could imagine from a blogger risen from extended recluse.
So.. let's just start with a claim that equates the number of extra hours of the night (in essence, how much of the midnight oil I burn) I spend working, with the measure of stuff, of will power, within me, just for tonight (for as an eternal claim it would endorse an unhealthy, self-debilitating habit).
Wish me luck!
In a sense, it is almost consequential. Why? Well, at the moment it's pitch dark, with the drowning monotonic screech of crickets, the occasional bark of a lonely dog, and, of course, the breathy mechanical 'respiration' of my computer, all enveloping, intoxicating the atmosphere all around, and in fact perpetuating the inevitable drowsiness I battle.
On the topic, have you had those days when your computer has just been on for days on end, almost wondering, "Boy! I'd be complaining right now!" That's the beauty of machinery. It doesn't necessarily complain (unless perhaps your antivirus is out of date).
So... back to the thought process. I am (so shamelessly) writing as a means of fighting the 'sleep pangs,' which almost ritually come at this very same time EVERY NIGHT... just as sure as the sun doth set.
And so, surrounded by inconceivable clutter all around me in what is the aftermath of my periodic art projects, I lay restless, heavy-eyed and wondering why I, we, have to suffer so much through the (arguably pretentious) drudgery of school and job and family and retirement!
"If only I were my own parent... Oh the things I would do...," I think to myself
In retrospect, and within the orbit of 'If only.." thoughts, I guess I can choose whether to be sad or happy about the outcome, as it is, of my 18 years of 'exo-uterine' (sorry if that sounds too graphic) existence. Yes, a battle is waged almost as soon as we phase out childhood and step into greater self dependence (or, in some cases, independence). A battle between blaming everyone and everything for our seemingly damaged selves... and deciding to love ourselves as we are.
To quote a philosophical prodigy, "You can only reach perfection in the frame of imperfection."
Our world is imperfect and varied. In consequence, t's okay to be you, flaws and all. After all, there was, is, and will certainly never be another you.
Anyway, there's a lot to say and express... as you could imagine from a blogger risen from extended recluse.
So.. let's just start with a claim that equates the number of extra hours of the night (in essence, how much of the midnight oil I burn) I spend working, with the measure of stuff, of will power, within me, just for tonight (for as an eternal claim it would endorse an unhealthy, self-debilitating habit).
Wish me luck!
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