An Un-Special Wednesday Morning

Somehow, it’s May. Somehow, it’s well into may. My mind is swimming right now; or would it be more appropriate to say thrashing? Poetry, language, though, photos, religion, pedagogy, existence, fruit, subjects, posture, form, function, style, content, objects and action all have very powerful daily effects on me. What is it about these subjects that drive me? Maybe it’s a desire to know. Maybe it’s simply a desire to do. There’s a big difference there, and I’m not sure I’m capable of distinguishing it.
I want to make music. I want my life to be music given to others. I want what I consistently fail at achieving.
Do other people think, almost daily, about the importance of the length of sentences in determining their relative importance in the meaning of a piece of literature?
I do.
And I’m sure others do, too.
How do we go about filling up our time on this terrestrial sphere so that the uselessness of existence isn’t an ever-present burden to the affected consciousness?
There are so many ways.
And they go by diverse names.
Thinking of the past can consume much of one’s time, as can thinking of the future, but so, also, can existing entirely in the present—this latter being, I think, most conducive to actual existence. Cogitations of that which has gone by is a waste of the moment you’re living in on a moment that cannot be changed. Rumination—which has an interesting double meaning—of things to come ought to be done carefully as time can, and usually does, make fools of us all. Perhaps this is why I am a bigger fan of direction than directions (that “s” makes a huge difference). What we miss when we are involved in these time-thoughts is that they are all happening in the present. Again, we miss the present.
Where are you… right now?
To lay down the load seems like a thoroughly enjoyable thing, and I suppose it is entirely possible. Mercurial seems to be the best nomenclature for the perpetual state of my mind: that which I believe today might, by tomorrow, be altered by new information. Or, it might not. It’s hard to say. There is so little absolute truth in the world. Everybody’s right. Everybody’s wrong. Can there be a nugget of absolute truth that humanity can know? I hesitate to mention God—with a purposeful capital—because you would be hard-pressed to find a Hindu or Muslim who would agree with a Southern Baptist, and conceptions of God always seem to me to fall into the realm of personal truths—because if I’m right and somebody disagrees with me, then they are wrong and need to be shone the true light (which is to say: my light… this little light of MINE).
I think there is truth to be found in consciousness. We all have it. It is universal. As a matter of fact, it could be argued that every consciousness in the world even has the same shape or form or style. What gets put into it might differ in content, but the shape (consciousness, sub-consciousness, and spirit) remains the same. The consciousness is the sensual world (what Hobbes might call the “voluntary actions”), the sub-conscious that of the involuntary actions (to a point), and the spirit is that nugget of reality that is so tangible and yet so difficult to describe. Maybe it’s time for me to start asking a new question: how is truth?