But you end up just subtracting, leaving yourself with a very extremely condensed yet unspecified version of a ‘plan’ that just comprise of one sentence. And that, you find is something needless to be written or reminded as it weaves into your very being. You are wired toward that goal. You are hopeful but facts are daunting. Specimen A: Died of tuberculosis at 26. Specimen B: Hung himself in 2008. Specimen C: Had many sleeping partners. Specimen D: Opium addict. Specimen E: Killed his wife but was not sentenced to any form of punishment. Specimen F: One of the most depressing people ever and thus was never a happy man, I think.
The Fourth Hour or So
There must be hope. I cannot just stop at throwing out all the terrible facts of life without any sort of consolation. And that hope is now. When I woke up this morning, I thought to myself, today I am going to try something new. This might destroy me, this might be something I will regretfully tell my future children, or if there are no children, to my future self. But nothing is ever so destructive that you cannot overcome. The change is inevitable. The fight is imminent. But what is needed as a prerequisite is enthusiasm in and through the struggle (and a whole lot of good music). What keeps us going, what keeps this enthusiasm to stay on, even at such passive moments as these, is knowing that there are indelible joys and fulfilment, although fragmentary, in which what is better than telling or showing people that you have all of those, is indeed having all of those, for the most part. Not that I conjured this all by myself. But it is important, (and here I will insert something clichéd- sing along if you must): ‘don’t stop believing’. And I don’t mean it solely in any way religious. Anything. For that is why you still wake up in the morning and do the things that you do, albeit mundane and insignificant. That is why I write or why I’m here, writing, because even though there are moments so uncertain and so seemingly fucked (or at least to me it is), beyond this cynical snob that you see or read, and beyond what you think of yourself, is someone, holding on to something, in which I’m not quite sure what to call it or even understand and ever will understand. But, I believe in the power of intention (not my own words of course). And it is my intention to live a life…Whatever he said.