Feed yourself–no, your self. Look deep on the inside of things. Are they worthwhile? Positive? Give your mind to things that are, and therefore pay attention to what you are giving your attention to. Don’t get trapped in a cycle of toxic negativity. Notice things. Stay aware. But not analytical. You also have to feel, blindly let your emotions do what they are meant to. Don’t suppress what is natural. Watch your self grow.
War. It is not an invented concept, but rather something that has always plagued the human race, some ancient deep aggressive ritualistic-goat-sacrificing primitive part of us that we haven’t quite conquered yet. The Primitive Aggression floats to the surface and it reeks of fear and death. It disguises itself in modern times, as, perhaps, a shirt-and-tie rational business-venture-type deal, or maybe, as if not totally paradoxical, a noble, stoic fight toward peace (or perhaps toward whatever tomorrow’s nationalistic dream is)–anything to hide its ugly face, to hide the shame of how terribly easily we humans can be controlled by our goat-sacrifice-type impulses.
Well let me tell you, I’ve had enough. I’m sick of war being treated like a necessity, being described as natural, even, being talked about like a rationale, like a bridge to finally reach Peace. Because it has been made clear, over the past few, say, hundreds of years, that war and peace are mutually exclusive, that, like the same ends of two refrigerator magnets, each repels the other.
And the thing about war is that there is no healthy portion of it. There is no healthy Diet War or War Zero that would make it okay. We have to stop it completely to ever even lay our fingertips on real peace. We have to find a new way to resolve our conflicts, and finally, finally move past this ancient and pathetic part of us. Like a tired and pale alcoholic at the end of his rope, we must stand once and for all and decisively admit the problem. We have to uninvent war because, really, we have no other choice.
The immortal yet the dying. The truth yet the grossly and improbably fabricated. It dies and is posthumously replaced by its own dust. An ancient and pale art is held at the throat and dismantled within an inch of its life. The archaic journalism industry as we know it is being disfigured beyond recognition. Journalism, the media, the source of public information, which has henceforth survived McCarthyism, muckraking allegations, et al., now shakes down to its very foundation from the voice of the internet: online inflation of information, empty words inside of the shell of real journalism like a gutted crab. Opinion and fact have been crossbred beyond separation. It has never been the public’s job to sort through real and false information, until now. It is modern day and the public takes one of three paths: they either eagerly ingest information exactly as it is presented to them because they agree with it, doubt or disregard every piece of news, or stop consuming news altogether.
Everything teems with a buzz, a drive. Everything is very, very alive and loves being so. The flowers are as orange as their sun, their mother, and grow ever fonder of her as the long warm day stretches on. The trees race among themselves to be the most vibrantly green of them all, and, looking at them, you can say to yourself: This is alive.
And the people are wrapped more and more tightly in this life as the days go by, and slowly the layers seep into their bones, and they glow in agreement and congruency with the life that surrounds them.
See that! That exciting exclamation mark! It is very appropriate. I am exploring, and it is rightfully exclaimed.
My only blog post this far has been me whining about the trappings of my hometown. But I want to be more than that. I am exploring myself and my tiny little world. I am exploring my mind and trying to make it not so tiny. I want to dig and find everything that is wonderful and beautiful. This disposition has risen from 2 reasons, 2 recent realizations: the mandate of the present and the meaninglessness/fleetingness of life.
It was recently related to me that the past and future don’t exist. It sounds an odd and easily refutable claim. However, when truly examined, the present really is all we have. The past and future are just imagined—they live only in our minds. All we really know to be real is what we feel and see and think in this moment, right now. This inhale, this exhale. The sound of our heart faintly heard in the quiet. The present is our only reality, everything else a figment of our imagination.
If that’s not existentialist enough, I have also recently been subjected to the all-encompassing thought of death, of the brevity of life, and its ultimate meaninglessness. A stimulant of these thoughts was the recent death of a professor I had just last semester. She was only seventy-two. In the middle of a successful career, holding many respectable local positions, in good health, she simply died. This made me angry. That is not how it’s supposed to work; you’re born, you go to school, you have a career, you retire, and you only then do you die, warm in your bed, satisfied and happy and surrounded by your whole family. That is the paradigm. You’re not supposed to die at the peak of your career. But death does not care. It simply took her.
I will appreciate my present because I have to. I have to love where I am and who I am. That is all I have; that is all any of us have. So here’s to exploring the now.