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My inclination to write within the context of a universal experience feels insincere and superficial at times. To want to write at all feels like a self indulgent rant or feathering of my own cap. I’ve abandoned more manuscripts and drafts of old manuscripts these past few weeks than I have all my life.

The need to recede grows stronger still. My flowery language weighs down in my efforts to express myself lightly. A fresh perspective is elusive in the midst of an old scene. Every effort results only in a new sense of the same old, but no new insights into old demons.

To be is not as simple as it seems. It demands so much within and without that it commands being, long before it allows me to just be. The shards of madness accumulate as I contemplate the value of it all. Seeing beyond the facade is a painful truth that most would rather disguise. It’s that internalised scene of old demons that prevent new perspectives from shaping. It is the same vantage point that denies affection from those who see our demons as trophies of our humanness.

The opinions of others have no bearing when we’re convinced that they don’t see what we see. But, even this assumes that our vision is perfect, and our perspectives perfectly informed. Therefore, it must be shame that shades our eyes from the brightness of beauty when the darkness is the only familiarity that we know. Especially when those opinions offer hope when we hope to hold on to the darkness instead.

The need to expel the clutter from my head is increasing in frequency. Sometimes it’s a healthy release. Sometimes, it creates a shape and form for that which I would rather not have visible. But escapism has never served me well, so brain dumps serve to recalibrate my focus when focus itself appears to be elusive. It’s the counter-intuitive act of being dishevelled in my thoughts in the hope of finding a groomed sanity.

The four seasons experienced this morning, coupled with tonight’s full moon, resonate with the fluidity of my existence today. Perhaps the tides will bring with it some newfound signs of peace, or serenity. I’m beginning to find a distinct difference between the two.

One thought that won’t leave me is based on something I wrote in the darkness of late. In contemplating the nature of pain, I stumbled upon the realisation that pain is nothing. It’s nothing where we once had something. It’s the absence of a joy we once had, but has since departed. It, in itself, is not a thing. It is only present in the absence of that which offers us peace…if not serenity. It’s not possible to make sense of nothing. Hence the pain of having nothing after once having had so much.

Such ramblings continue to tumble out of my mindlessness as I reevaluate everything I once evaluated to be true. There is much that others take for granted but of which I have yet to taste. Giving up on what I need or want has been a constant in my life. But giving up on duty is a luxury that I don’t have. Fixating on what was given up versus what cannot be abandoned has never led to any enlightened spaces. Only self-pity or a toxic sense of entitlement.

To feel entitled isn’t as vapid as it may appear. Beneath such entitlement still roams the misguided notion that there is a self-worth that must be honoured by others. Whether true or not, social contracts of the like are only as valid as the willing subscription of those party to it. Such subscription has grown to define the value of many, both in its presence by building pedestals for the meek, and in its absence by destroying pedestals of the bold.

Sanity roams freely in a neighbouring state.