Nothing Insightful

I used to have a journal with me at all times, and would whip it out and jot a few things down whenever the opportunity presented itself. Doing this kept a single thread of consciousness alive and connected throughout the day as I would pick it back up, take it a little further through the labrynth, and scratch a mark onto the surface for slightly more tenable an existence than the otherwise simple fleeting discharge of neural dendrites as the moment faded. That preservation against an inevitable expiration being the sole intent and common theme of the drive to write. Something of myself could then act as a foundation for perspective and constance among chaos.

I don't have that luxury any more, of time to do even a small gesture in homage to the previously golden age (from which I have some 10 volumes filled). I miss the forced organization of lining thoughts up to be presented single-file through the draw of ink across page. The ever-available bookmark into my own insights that could keep me focused, forward looking, and balanced.

What I have now are stolen moments, made available only because they're not suitable for anything else. Even my creative writing which I hold so dear falls by the wayside - the blocks of time large enough to consider using appear only after so much mental exhaustion has filled the day that mere coherence becomes a struggle, let alone constructive and creative cerebral activity.

I'm trying to break that spell through this blog, as a start. I'm holding my daughter Eden right now as she drifts deeper into sleep for the night, and leveraging my geeky tendencies through my palm pilot to resuscitate the old ways. The exhaustion bit is still a factor though, and keeping my eyes open is a challenge right now.

But at least I can in some small measure stand up to that dark oppression of temporary mortality and try to raise a voice in protest. Or maybe cast "magic missile."

Eventually I hope to bring the regular (think 'fibrous diet', not 'typical' - the pejorative sense) writing efforts back, and allow myself to resume the slowly thread-woven tapestry of evolving introspection (how's that for tortured analogy?). I don't see how else I can hope to keep any portion of self alive in the daily stream of activity - all of which is appropriated for other causes and assigned out before I see a cent of it.

In the meantime be patient; thoughts here will be scattered and random, disconnected and perhaps even unaware of each other. Any poignant contents will be accidental, and the commonality will not be my struggle for greater understanding of humanity and the universe. Rather, it will be me whining about my frustration in continually trying unsuccessfully to bring about some kind of lasting transformation in these circumstances. That's the therapy I need though - sorry you're ending up reading it.

Where are the Cheetos?