Stray thought

In life, we are under the illusion that we are in control and yet, ironically, it is when this illusion is challenged that we feel most alive.

Hypotheticals, with a touch of encouragement

Sometimes I wonder whether I'm just recycling the same topics that plague me in the quiet times of introspection. With such a thought in place, I now dwell upon the bleak realization that all I am will be forgotten. I just now read a post online that stated that in 100 years, nobody would know what I've done. That's CRAZY! What's more crazy, perhaps, is the acceptance that such a statement carries truth coupled with the desire to leave a lasting mark. My mind struggles to overcome the inevitability it develops to recognize. Furthermore, this paradox that is so unique to my subjective consciousness has been and will continue to be realized countless times outside my own experience. I want to be something more, I want to be unique, I want to do something great, and yet I realize that my measure of greatness is fleeting. Even the standard by which I may succeed in this lifelong pursuit may be discarded with the passage of time.

Wow, how depressing, let's move on. This is a pattern, I've noticed, when it comes to philosophical thought: deep engagement, bleak realization, disassociation from the subject. Let's not dwell there though, let's move on. I'll leave you to consider the impacts of such means of self-actualization and understanding.

How about some news? That'll brighten up this dreary post and make you all feel a little bit better about things, I hope. Really, don't dwell on it all, not now at least. My volleyball team just killed it, recreational-style, becoming champions of our fancy little league. In other news, I am nearing my goal of guitar superstar. Let's talk about that, I like that stuff.

Music! What in the world, what an amazing thing! I had a jam session with a friend the other day and wow, what a great experience! I feel such a passion for music, the whole pursuit of growth and development in this aspect of life is such a joy! I feel as though among the greatest feelings we can have as people is a desire to grow. We're so frequently told what we should learn that it becomes a chore, and we seek freedom to turn off our minds in our spare time. To want to fill that time with the pursuit of knowledge is exciting! I am getting better, I will continue to improve, and life just keeps getting better. I can't believe this goal which, in the past, seemed so distant is now becoming a reality.

If I were a twitter social media guy I'd instagram a poorly lit picture with my own hashtags telling you to follow your dreams, with puns about nostringsattached and such trending my way to the top. But I'm not, I'm a boring old blogger so I'll put it this way: I challenge you to think of something you've wanted to do for a while, but have hesitated from doing. Now that you've thought of it, tell me what it is. I will then pester you until you start heading in the right direction. Dreams seem to be but possibilities elaborated in hypothetical existences; goals without limits. Yet the limits inhibiting the pursuit of our progress are seldom as substantial as we make them out to be, so stop dreaming and start to be the person you're planning to become.

Healthy Desire

What is a healthy desire?

Is there such a thing? I suppose I should start there. What does it look like to look longingly upon an object and wish to possess it without associations of domination, control or obsession? This Christmas, I have no list and yet I still fear that materialism will overwhelm me. As I reflect on the gifts I could have received, the things I could be using; I will be in a position of unhealthy desire. That is what inspired this quandary, yet it does little to resolve the initial question.

Whether we're speaking in terms of people or things, our gaze has a potential to reduce what we view to the position of objects. We alter these objects from their reduced state to mental representations of happiness, adding to the list, omitting forgotten treasures and discarding past acquisitions. We are a people in process, searching for the things that'll bring with them happiness. This, as far as I can see, is the unhealthy desire that taints our interactions with the things we buy but also the people we objectify. We control what we possess, and seek to possess all within our reach, looking upon the world with outstretched arms.

So what may healthy desire look like? How can I still desire if the very notion is tainted with my flawed approach? If desire itself knows no bounds, am I trying to consolidate oppositional forces? At this point I usually get all analytical, but I'll flip it, and leave this for you to decide. Let me know. What is a healthy desire? Can this be applied generally or is it specifically bound to set circumstances?

Holla-acha-boi.

A Prayer

God,

Make my prayers like poetry,
Make my desires perfect, and my dependence absolute.
Give me words to speak, not to be heard but to communicate my hurt.
Give me eyes to see not weakness or suffering but the pain behind circumstance.
Let me be that which I'm created to be, not that which I desire but that which is desired of me.
That I may identify with the universality of a world torn from your presence.
That I may stand boldly behind my confessions aware of your sacrifice.
Aware that I falter, that I stray, that I fail, that I need.
Aware that yours is a language of love.

Time

Is it just me, or is time fascinating? Sometimes the most beautiful things aren't the sunsets, the starry nights, the falling snow or the autumn leaves, not the things which we look upon and appreciate but rather the things which we completely ignore. These things, once noticed, stand out like color embedded in dull greys, startling our conscious mind and demanding our focus. We see beauty in celebrities and fashion models, this beauty we observe as directed and appreciate as expected, but this other beauty is found in the wrinkles of old age. It is not that which has happened, or that which is yet to be, but that which is in process, slowly developing beyond our detection. This is the beauty of time.

We are forever consumed with its not yet and alreadys, its long ago and its when I grow ups. We pace nervously in anticipation and sigh heavily in our relief of a moment passed. We direct ourselves to seize the day which is yet to be, live for the moment that lies still in our past, and only live once conquering opportunities to experience the true extent of this sole lifespan. With all of our emphasis on life, the life lived and that which lies ahead, we overlook the beauty of this moment.

There will never be a time like this. In all my days, with all the thoughts I've yet to experience, I'll never recreate this instant. It is both entirely new and forever old, and as I pass it by I fail to acknowledge its work. As lines are formed, carved deeper and made bolder, I hope to one day be startled by the beauty of it all. Not to limit it to what is before me, or decide as to what deserves my attention, but to be aware of this silent beauty which simply is.

To Be Consumed

What is consumption? (Asks the quasi-philosophical chap with the new haircut and PJ pants)

What does it mean to be a consumer? See now, if you're anything like me, I suspect you're all "psssh, I know what a consumer is." But of course, to be difficult, sometimes the things which we easily define are far more complex than we allow them to be in our own imaginations. Yes, a consumer is a customer, a purchaser of goods, one who uses products, etc. However, I believe it goes deeper. I believe that a consumer mentality is what you're buying into (ha! Pun! This guy with his puns! Ha!). I believe that a consumer is part of a more complex system wherein we're being shuffled and moved around like the products we pursue. I believe that consumerism is so deeply entrenched in us that we have to fight to escape it. That at our core, it is something that impacts our identity. That it has potential to become our driving force beyond all other forces in our lives.

What value is there in a consumer who functions independent of the consumerist system? Like faulty wears, this person stands out as a malfunctioning cog in a system of compliance and conformity. To be a consumer, one must actively consume. Not only that, one should consume what is being produced, what companies wish the individual to pursue. You now may be thinking, "please Matthew, tell me what to buy." Well...maybe not. But I bet it's in there somewhere. That's how this whole thing works. We feel this need, this hole, and we seek to fill it with the things we can buy. What's more unsettling, when we are unsure of what can fill this gap, we seek to be told and there's no shortage of people willing to tell you.

You feeling empty? Try this. It'll help. It'll cure everything. It'll make you thinner, more appealing, more intelligent, more attractive, a better athlete, a better lover, a better you! Just-make-sure-the-credit-card-clears aaaaaaaand there you have it. But now that you have it, if you find it isn't working, just return it, try something new. There's no shortage of products let me assure you. Consumption is about more than the things we buy, it's what we're buying into.

Now when I have, I seek to preserve. What I amass, I protect. These things I buy, they are important because at some point or another, they made me feel good. They gave me worth, I owe it to them to protect them. I insure them, losing them would be like losing a part of me, and I feel lost without them. My phone, my laptop, my wallet, my tv, my life is contained in my possessions. How did I ever function without them? Not only do these things define me, they elevate me by comparison to the self-definition I see in others.

How sad, you have last years model. That's rough.
No phone, ouch. Must be tough.
I'm glad I'm secure in who I am, I cannot imagine being without what I have.
I'm so happy, I finally got fillintheblank and I'll use it for several weeks, realistically, before I pursue my next life giving purchase.

We are profoundly empty, an endless pit of consumerism encouraging envy, irrational protection/preservation and deep seeded insecurity.

Now is where I do the thing where I say the stuff on my mind that prompted this mad rambling. Sitting here at home along, I realized something. I want to know that others have more, and make peace with having less. That's right folks, I want to accept my lack of self-definition through the things I own. I wish to be okay with the acknowledgement that I'll never have a new car, never have a fancy guitar or a big shiny house. If the things I own will define me, I wish to be defined with modesty. If I can refute this self-identification with the things I own, I wish to know myself not by the things I buy to fill this void but rather the things I abstain from buying.

Aware of what it is to consume, to be a consumer, and to be consumed by this mindset, I strive to be set apart. This hypnotic seduction is ever-present, and to resist is tireless, but identity should be constructed in the substance of our souls, the virtues of the mind, the pursuit of joy, not the things which we consume, lest identity itself be consumed.

Self-introduction

I wake up, and I do it all again, yet life somehow feels like a progression. In the time it takes for my mind to reflect on its own growth, I've been busy developing beyond the point at which introspection began. I'll never fully comprehend the person I've become, and that is utterly dissatisfying. With each pause, each gaze inward, I am introduced to a new me. It's as though my soul is waiting for the cognitive update, allowing itself to grow and adapt, yet restricted to its former capacities until I've hit refresh. It's great to constantly be introduced to an ever changing self, but it certainly limits my capacity for a fully integrated integrity. Who am I now? I am both asked and I ask this of myself, without appreciation for the complex inquiry this poses. It's a great question, and I am as thrilled to give a thorough account as one may be to receive it as I rediscover aspects of my shifting self. I'm a guitarist, now. I'm a Christian, now. I'm a husband, now. I'm a man with hair too long, ambitions too limited and a future all too uncertain to be comfortable, though I'm a man who doesn't appreciate comfort all that much as it is. As I grow tired, and the day reaches its end, I prepare myself to reset the clock until such a time when...

To Breathe

It used to be that I wrote out of emotion. That something would happen; someone would do or say something that fueled a fire within me and a frustrated mess of feelings found its way to the page in some form or another. I used to love the rush of directing all of my mental energy, all of my emotional preoccupations into something creative. I started writing as a way of getting everything out. It was messy, don't get me wrong. It was filled with anger, filled with sadness, filled with resentment and regret. I hated feeling the way I felt, and at the end of it all I'd be emotionally exhausted, but restored.

As I grew I became less and less emotionally invested, less emotionally affected, less creative in some ways. Writing, thinking, feeling became a means of vulnerability that I wouldn't afford myself, and it slowly phased out as something instinctual. Now, I often find myself without strong emotional responses, if any at all. I don't know where this came from specifically, I suppose it was the result of an adolescence filled emotional experience, as if I've used up my supply of this powerful motivator and all that remains is the harsh exterior of logic and reason. I've come to identify this as my major struggle, the battle between what is known and what is felt. Though I inhabit a world of reason, and function therein quite comfortably, the moments when emotion bursts through feel like bursts of fresh air on a warm, stale day. It's tough, even now as I sit at this keyboard, acknowledging that much of my life is spent without really feeling.

I suppose this is where religion comes into my life, and makes things interesting. To me, God epitomizes the idea of existence as felt. While there will be an endless search for empirical proof of God, He'll never be found in the realm of what is known. He may cross over in the individual that reflects that they just know, but this is merely an expression of feeling, albeit a strong feeling. God, Jesus, the Spirit, these aspects of the ever-present creator aren't meant to be known, but felt. Jesus isn't in my heart, He's somewhere in my brain in those sections responsible for His detection where I feel something beyond myself.

For me, this is what life should feel like. I often feel like I'm simply counting the days until life occurs, waiting for something beyond what is to awaken me to something greater. It's not about heaven, deliverance, salvation, it's about feeling existence. When I used to write, I felt it. It hurt, it stung, it numbed, but it also felt amazing. It was something indescribable. Now I don't know if that's what God feels like, but it was a sensation of the greatest magnitude, one that brings you to tears over nothing, stopping all movement and sound around you, captivating your very existence. I long to live outside the constraints of my own consciousness, to escape the numbing grasp of logic and reason long enough to let life in.

Whenever I write, whenever I want to be transported beyond the constraints of my own thoughts, I listen to music. For me, music is the language of the soul. I strive to leave the mind behind, to write not thoughts but feelings, and music allows me to access that small part of myself. I don't know if I really do have this emotional side that's been crippled by life or if what I listen to elicits its own response external to my logical self, but I know that in these times I start to feel alive. I write to live, not to be read. It is breath for my soul. I spend my days gasping for something I cannot explain, for something I simply know, for something felt. In these times, I breathe in deeply, allowing each individual emotion to fill my lungs, swirling its affects around as they flow throughout my body. Then I exhale, unaware of when I'll take this deep breath again, but appreciative of the opportunity to feel alive.

surrounded by death
embraced by life
enveloped in struggle
I submit

Happy Birthday to me, indeed.

Whaaaat, who is this guy? Two posts in such a short window! Now this is a blog worth following...

Now that I'm done patting myself on the back, let's get to it.

I shall now put on my philosopher hat as I ask..."what is a birthday?" Surely more than the day I was born, plus 23 years. Surely it has become something much more meaningful, much more sentimental, perhaps much more dreaded, a birthday is a commemorative excuse for celebration and the exchange of well wishes.

Now, those who know me well know I'm not much of a holiday guy at all. How do I console this with the fact that I had an awesome birthday? I'm working on it, I tells ya. (Tangent) I am not a fan of holidays as I believe that they tend to idolize a day above others for good tidings, good behaviour and general admonishments of love, neglecting moderation for overzealous hyperbole that, in contrast, makes other days some more dreary.

(A wild rhyming cynic appears!) Those who post upon walls, text instead of placing calls, respond late or perhaps not at all drain the sincerity from the claim happy birthday. It becomes another article of meaningless grunting along with such gems as "how's it going?" and "canucks-canucks-canucks, etc." If you really cared, says the lonely abscess of my subconscious, you'd make an effort to get personal in your message. If it really mattered at all to all you folks, you'd do more to make it something that reflects the value you place in our relationship.

Now see, that right there is some useless bit of selfish, prideful reflection. That right there is the product of an idolized day wherein I'm supposed to be treated specially and allowed to be high-maintenance under the cover of my special status as birthday boy. This is how I respond to this day when I treat it as anything more than what it is.

What is it? It is just a day. Though it provides an excuse for the over-sharing that breaks social character, the kind of over-sharing that says I love you, I love the person you are, the things you've done and the things you've helped me realize in the time we've known one another. These sentiments, for me, are the essence of friendship. Yet it is this companionship that is hidden behind all the other empty statements we use to do our little social song-and-dance, hiding and disguising our true thoughts. So at once, this day is entirely unspecial, and entirely amazing, as it allows us to be real, or not, but even in our hesitation confirm that there is a bond that is valued beyond the limits of the incomplete phrase "happy birthday".

See now, when I'm prideful I see these words and shake my head, demanding more, and neglecting the source, doubting any sentimental connection to this ghost phrase. Yet when I reflect, step down from upon a perch of socially constructed superiority, I realize that these words tell me that there are people out there loving me. There are people out there who care enough to pause life, borrow my attention, and affirm our relationship. Love isn't the eloquent MC-improv-poet stepping up to bestow blessings crafted for quote-books and re-tweets. Love is the attitude behind each individual whose will for their own happiness is momentarily halted as they seek to devote their time and energy to the happiness of another.

I love best when I am loved, and on a day when so many people reach out from their worlds to bestow joy on me, I feel equipped to love like crazy. Thanks to those who show love, in whatever form best finds their focus, I only hope you feel some sort of reciprocity in the love you demonstrate and know that your words, to me, represent a carefully constructed and well cared for bond.

Mentors...the freshmakers?

Weeeeeelcome BICK.

Nice to be back to the avenue of free thought. Don't get me wrong, I love writing about modernism and reading about nutrition and education, but it isn't the same as writing about my passions. I searched my mind and came up with today's topic, something I've been considering a while now and felt like getting something down about. This absurdly obscure topic that prior to my coming to faith I'd never encountered...mentors.

What is a mentor? I work with kids, am I mentor? What's the point of mentoring? What's it all about? Is it only for kids? Does it matter? All these questions rushed upon me as I first encountered this topic, but now my interaction with the subject goes much deeper. Allow me to share,

So there I was, existing (as I'm so prone to doing) in a state of confusion, disappointment and frustration. You see, for me, sin is a heavy burden that I am constantly struggling with. In addition to that, I was in a community, which was something I'd longed for for such a long time. I'm not very good at the whole social thing, not as good as I may appear to be, and so this was a blessing. However, even within this community I felt isolated.

I have a WIFE! A wife, how crazy is that? Me! This guy! A wife! I know, I'm still surprised myself. Anyways, what's that like, you may wonder. So do I, so did I, so will I ever consider such a thing. I don't know what to do, I don't know the procedure, you make it up as you go. However, I felt like, and still feel like largely, I'm not very good at this. I make mucho mistakes, I am selfish, I am overly obsessive, I am not the husband I promised to be. So I searched my community for support, I shared my shortcomings, and though they listened and responded with care and empathy, I felt insufficient.

Enter mentor. One day, after weeks (and I literally mean weeks) of screwing up and delaying, making up excuses and fighting the situation off, I sought out a Mr. White to ask him to mentor me. It had been dawning on me that I didn't have an example of faith, I didn't know what a Christian man looked like from my own childhood and I lacked that guidance. We met, we talked, we laughed, we shared and I felt myself being repaired. He's not a medical surgeon, and it's not about him anymore than it is me as individuals. We allowed ourselves to become part of a process wherein God used him to sharpen me, and convicted me to share with him. It was the thing I needed to repair, to reflect, to share and grow and understand what it means to live for my wife, live for my God and stop living for myself. It made a difference, it was a fresh maker (like the pun? see title, lololol)

Now, where am I? Obviously sinless and blameless...NOT. No, I still screw up, but we still meet, and I still share as much as I wish, knowing the more I hold back, the more I hold myself back.

See, here's the extra crazy part. Now I'm a leader, now I'm responsible for others, and now I feel called to be a mentor. I went from lonely, frustrated, and isolated to comforted and supported so that I can support. It wasn't to build me up, it was to equip me to do the same, it was part of something bigger. I look forward to my mentoring relationship and wonder whether I can do anything near what Joe did, before I realize that Joe simply listened and responded, remained obedient to his God and supported me. I think I can do that. It's not about me, it's about my mentoree (is that a word? It is now!).

All this rambling to say, are you supported? Are you alone? Really? Or are you being kept from having a relationship where you're able to share it all, be supported, be prayed for, and grow. It's not even about faith, it's about support. If you don't have faith, you still go through difficulties. I honestly think this type of a relationship can benefit anyone. Is it awkward to find someone? Not as much as you think. Seek it out, think about it, pray about it, and allow yourself to grow.

Boo yeah! Post over!

A post of substance

Here we go!

I like to write update-ish posts among others that are more difficult to characterize, so here we are. Topic of the day? Let's go with...moving! Well, more so the issue is growing up to discover that there's a difference between idealism and practicality, discovering also that what you may have previously considered the latter may in fact be the former. Coming to the conclusion that the lines are never as easily drawn as they seem is a potentially life changing revelation.

I want to help people learn, I want to be a teacher, I want to teach, these notions have occupied my ambition for as long as the concept had relevancy in my life. Technically, in my early days I just wanted to help people. A noble enough cause, I'd say. Yet, at some point there comes a time when I realized that, though these goals are not impractical, they are steeped in idealism. Do I simply want to teach? Or do I also want to raise a family? Do I not also seek religious fulfillment? Community? Love? Knowledge? Stability? Once I reflect upon what I actually want, acknowledging how the simplest of goals can become saturated in practical logistical concerns, life becomes complicated.

I wish to teach, but more so I wish to be used. Even more so, I wish to be useful. I wish to acquire skills that can build a better world, that can benefit my immediate company as well as those further away. I wish to be valuable (though an individual's value can be a tricky thing to assess). Furthermore, I wish to be driven. With this assortment of desires, I wonder whether it is still practical to plan anything specific in life. My goals become complicated by my uncertainty regarding their overall purpose. Do I still want to teach? Teach what? Teach how? Teach where? What if teaching renders me useless beyond my subject? What if teaching replaces my passion with complacency, and my idealism with practicality? What if teaching requires me to leave everything I've ever known behind for roads unknown? All these annoying little queries arise as I reflect on the possible paths my future may be mapped upon. What I know for sure is that life is, at this point in time, about a submission of control rather than a desire to take control. With such a lack of true direction, I must submit to the possibilities and trust where I am sent, knowing I've got an amazing woman by my side to work through the issues (both practical and idealistic) that may arise as we wait for inspiration to provide clear guidance.

For the longest time, I've thought it was all about what I wanted to do. It's only now, as I near the end of my educational journey, that I am beginning to realize the many possibilities life may offer and the limitations of my strict expectations. Open minded doesn't feel quite right as a label for my attitude, as I seek to open myself deeper to possibilities beyond the realm of thought alone. It is with an open soul that I prepare for the next stage God has in store for me.

I wish to be poetic.

I dream of a world where beauty is found in the words we use rather than the clothes we wear, where joy is extracted from moments perfected by the expression of soul. Yet I'm restlessly awake attempting to assemble assortments of poetic speech, with each ensuing effort reminding me of the difficulties associated with consciousness. As we dream, our fancies become unattached scenes of impulse and curiosity marked not by effort or awareness but by impulse. On the contrary, the alert state that I currently experience is trapped by its own limitations, governed by the restrictive grip of reality. So easily may my dreams come true, yet the shudder that arouses me from my slumber carries with it the sting of forgetfulness. Its as though each night, as I drift into a world of curiosity, I experience the greatest moments only to lose my recollection of their occurrence.

To write as one dreams, without hesitation or need for explanation, passing from thought to thought in detached sequence of impulsive thought with a semblance of coherence, this truly intrigues me.

I'll figure you out yet, dreams, as I furiously strive to recall all which I've come to learn and understand.

...

For me, a guy who finds great difficulty in initiating social exchanges, I wonder whether this is a skill that needs to be built up as opposed to a natural faculty. As children, we are directed in our friendships, guided by the hands of parents, teachers, coaches and other adults that steer us towards friends and ensure that these bonds are well maintained. When we make mistakes, when we act improperly or selfishly, our guardians correct us and teach us how to properly associate with others. Eventually, we are weaned off this support and left to fend for ourselves. As the training wheels are removed from our bikes, and we begin the wobbly ride of independence, we understand our true capabilities.

However, in my own experiences, perhaps I've fallen off one too many times to be comfortable riding without assistance. This is where this metaphor falls apart, as one can walk away from their bike much easier than they can turn their back on friendships. Furthermore, it's not as though I wish to be without friends. Just as the inept rider desires flawless ability, I too desire the ability to comfortably navigate social exchanges. I simply acknowledge my hesitancy to try as it also represents the risk of failure.

Knowing that improvement comes from experience, I am finding myself uncomfortably driven towards pushing my comfort zone outward and risking the pains of failure. I acknowledge, as well, how absurdly stuck I am in my own head regarding this. Yet, where else am I to be as I think my way in and out of these tough situations?

Musings on ambition and purpose

It feels good to return to the other side of things, reflecting on thoughts as I capture and recap the many notions passing through my mind. Here goes...

I, being not necessarily a man of much drive nor ambition, wish to become a more avid reader and a folk music sensation. Preferably, these goals would be accomplished in my spare time. Perhaps they could be realized in tandem, as stars need to stay mentally alert even in their down time. I'd honestly LOVE to be in a folk band and sing the days away, it'd be such a joy. Books are cool, but the folky side of me (being activated and stimulated as we speak by several Youtube videos) is probably the more pressing of these unlikely ambitions. A guy can dream.

While I'm on the subject of folk music, I should note that it fuels me as I work. I've been realizing lately how much I have changed in certain aspects of my personality in the last few years. I used to hate manual labour, thinking that I should strive for excellence and success that prevents me from having to ever work with my hands rather than my mind. Additionally, I used to sing only in the most private places to avoid being heard. However, as I headed home to tidy up and lend a hand I found myself thoroughly enjoying the pains of work as I sung along with my musical accompaniment at full volume, reaching for harmonies beyond my grasp and striving for notes at the edge of my range. I guess I feel as though singing is an outlet for my soul, a way of truly expressing and actualizing the many emotions associated with the work I was doing. For the first time in a long time, I felt content. My mind wasn't beyond itself, my thoughts weren't focussed on anything besides the task at hand. For a guy who is constantly thinking and overanalyzing, there was much peace to be found in the events of the day.

While I relay the events of today, I feel this post would be incomplete without mentioning several discussions that, while only scratching the surface of their potential, encouraged me to strive for depth in subject matter in the conversations I engage in. It's odd, but I supposed I often feel as though the people I'm closest to know me well enough that they don't need to be brought into these deep, philosophical conversations on belief. I didn't quite make it there today, but I saw potential and I had the opportunity to share, listen and plant conversational seeds that will hopefully be growing.

Bah, perhaps that paragraph read overly cryptic and pretentious, sorry about that. While I've got you here, I'll finish by sharing that I feel like I'm growing and in this slow progression I'm becoming increasingly aware of my desire to escape the comfort I feel here in Vancouver. I feel as though I'll be forever disappointed in myself if I never get beyond this degree of complacency. Through a discussion with a very dear friend, I came up with the estimate that I live somewhere in the top 10% in terms of SES and wealth and the like. That scares me. Scratch that, I'm not scared by that notion as much as I am by the possibility that I'll never know anything beyond this 10%. Part of me wants to run off somewhere with my lovely wife, and a guitar (once I learn to play it), making music and experiencing life in a way I'd never have considered before. While I feel change upon me, I also feel as though the decision to remain the same means a decision to limit the potential to surpass my own limited expectations of the man I am and the man I one day could be.

That is all. You, faithful few who stumble upon my ramblings, are no doubt worthy of my gratitude as you co-journey through these moments in life with me. Thanks for the support, even if I never find out you've come across this at all.

Man's Best Friend

You were warmth.
You were comfort.
You were the epitome of content, and it was so easy to take you for granted.

You brought nothing to me, did nothing for me, never once did you serve me,
but my soul is not nourished by physical service alone.
You were the great companion, co-experiencing behind soggy eyes
with a well-earned pace of one prepared to approach the finish line.

Your existence, while brief, was that of a tissue box, a good book, a favorite sweater or a carton of ice cream: though independent from my own, your life was spent supporting me through struggles and successes. I miss that support. I miss the support that I could continue to gain. I delight in my sorrow knowing now of the love that I felt all along for the pet that stunk terribly but seldom made a sound. I wore tears as badges of pride for this love you've inspired, refusing to hide my pain but declaring in my failed stoicism my willingness to be vulnerable as you faded into a dreamless sleep.

I trust that life without death will be among the greatest gifts God has to offer. Until such a time, I mourn for that which is taken from this side of the curtain in the hopes that, if only in memory alone, those we once embraced will remain with us as we enter the unknown and share the fearful grasp of our final breath.

Goodbye Diablo, I'll carry you with me always.

You are what you wear.

Is it deceitful to emphasize social traits in oneself that are known to be well received by others? By this I mean, knowing that others seek people who are x,y, and z, emphasizing such traits in oneself as a means of receiving acceptance. I'm really not sure, as it stands, whether this is an honest practice or not. The thing which makes it difficult to discern, I suppose, would be the fact that we are so good at simplifying the identity of others into preconceived categories that we rarely allow them to be much beyond our x,y,z.

Moving beyond the abstract, for me this particular issue creeps up when the discussion veers towards the introvert/extrovert distinction. I display the traits of extravert: talkative, socially outgoing, loud, willing to share my opinions/thoughts, yet these are things I'm working hard to emphasize. Lately, I`ve noticed that when I'm not feeling 100% these things fade and I feel as though my armor is being stripped away, exposing a broken child who is filled with doubt, anxiety and insecurity. These things are like fancy clothes, donned for an occasion, imbuing me with confidence and strength. Yet, eventually they must be removed. I know it's deceitful to be someone you're not, but is it deceitful to emphasize your strengths to achieve comfortability and acceptance? Perhaps this is all we are, personalities that are socially dependent as we gauge our audience and share different pieces of our souls with those who best receive them.

In any case, this discussion is a particularly important one for me as lately I've been finding it a lot more difficult to be this guy all the time. What's worse, when everyone expects you to come to them, to join their groups, and to make yourself seen, your absence and solitude becomes viewed as a choice. It's as though people (not necessarily in ways that are their fault) assume that you're able to just hop in to social settings and since you're sitting on the outside you're where you want to be. Maybe I'm overanalyzing and nobody's taking notice at all, but I can assure you that nobody wants to be on the outside. My time spent there makes me feel as though I'm watching people live great lives from the inside of a cage.

This is where the socially adaptive nature breaks down, as acting a particular way over time gives people only a glimpse of who you are and makes it far easier for your identity to be reduced to what you've shown them. You become "the English major", "the volleyball player", "the philosopher", but no longer do you remain "the person". Your discussions, superficial or filled with depth, become one dimensional as people come to expect things of you and come to you for specific things. If you're funny, people like that and want to be around your humour, sharing in laughs and jokes, but nobody comes to you when you're not prepared to laugh. Especially not if all they know in you is that you're the funny guy. Who likes the funny guy when he's depressing? That's just awkward.

So now back to what's concrete, I'll elaborate a bit more on who I am and how I'm feeling in all this. I feel like I've always known how to socialize, not so much out of natural progression, but out of necessity. I've gone through abandonment, and it's left me extremely guarded as a person, compelling me to learn ways to be interesting and maintain interest and attention. Lately, it all feels like a lot of work. When I've dropped my guard, and just been around people, I feel so damned lonely it scares me into becoming a more social me. What's worse, when I'm not working hard at it I see so many other people like me who are trying, or giving in, as they yearn for true acceptance and embrace. I don't think people neglect or overlook people because they're insensitive, maybe just because they don't know what it's like to be in a room full of people and feel loneliness. It's not exactly easy to see the people who are hiding from themselves.

In any case, in addition to all this I'm now left wondering what makes up my identity and whether I can truly say the fancy clothes I wear are at all a part of who I am. I suppose I'll wear them as long as they fit, but it'd be nice to know that when I'm not in this outfit, people still see me as more than a restricted view of who I am. I've got to try harder to be a whole person, while balancing the desire to fit in with the desire to be genuine; this is a lot of work. Is anyone else wearing a particularly fancy self, or am I alone in all this?

Talking to myself

Hey Folks,

 It's been a while since I took some time to write, but since I'm in a proactive mood I figured I'd type away for a bit. I suppose the thought that's on my mind is that there's never enough time within these bursts of energy and activity. All the things I'd accomplish, all the goals I'd be able to have ticked off my list, everything I've ever aspired towards would be complete if not for the draw back into routine. It's strange to think that we so readily concede our place within a socially constructed world and yet cling to a sense of self that is our own little piece of selfishness. I spend countless hours in my day simply sitting around, doing nothing for anyone, just existing. Yet, these moments aren't the true me existing, they aren't spent in reflection of the inner being I've preserved, they're moments I've been crafted for, moments I've been tuned into and moments I'm being preserved in.

As I sat watching nothing upon the television, I'm not alone. I'm not isolated. I'm surrounded by the closest friends the world wants me to keep. I'm basking in comfort as my dearest buddies sell me into submission through programs and advertising. It's not that without them I'd be a selfless being, it's just that they taught me to tailor selfishness to their needs. I'm not doing nothing, you're not doing nothing, we never DO nothing, we simply ignore our actions and assume auto-piloted controls that we've been taught to overlook. I heard, the other day, a notion that I've heard many times before but yet that never looses its poignancy, "everyone wants to think that they're some how unaffected by advertising. Companies wouldn't pay millions of dollars a year for something that doesn't work." This multi-billion dollar a year industry has us so turned around, they've got us so confident in our own self sufficiency that we're as puppets on invisible strings. Anyways, I perhaps digress a bit too much. All this to say, my own time that I cherish and hold as MINE is hardly even that. If I'm going to squander my life away in moments of supposed nothingness, I should at the very least recognize it for what it is.

This brings me, of course, to the part of my reflection that asks what to do about this circumstance? It'd be naive to think that I'll escape, only to emphasize my earlier point of illusory freedom. Rather, I suppose, my time should be something that I choose to spend intentionally. I firmly believe that selflessness, as a counter-cultural virtue, is perhaps the only way to escape the disappointment that life taught me too little, and helped me accomplish what were frivolous ends. However, when the other is the project, there is no sense of guilt in the small things. If I live my life everyday with the knowledge that what I fail to accomplish is holding me back from the ideal person I'd have become, I live in perpetual disappointment. However, if I live with the goal of helping you realize the amazing person you are, or the amazing things you're capable of, or the joy that your presence brings to me and those around us, I cannot fail. The hesitation to speak, to compliment or lend a hand, to breach the gap separating my own world from that which exists beyond me, is also a worldly construct. This tension is weakened when I make a conscious effort to go outside of my own little bubble.

It's not about changing the world, that's far too overwhelming of a goal to shoot for, certain only to lead to disappointment as I reflect on my own failure. No, rather than being about changing the world, it's about changing my perception of the world. My own fears and worries turn others into monsters, and make me flee from interaction for fear of rejection. However, I only appear as absurd as I allow myself to acknowledge and personally, I feel more absurdity in this norm we all seem to accept and ignore than I do in being the man set apart.

And yet, as I type and reflect I feel more and more that I'm becoming as relevant as the Underground Man, spinning my wheels as I reflect on a world too absurd to change, acknowledging my own opposition while remaining aware of the difficulty to change. This pessimism/realism is overwhelming, and at the age of 22 I feel as though I'm getting old. Perhaps it's not that this is too complex to think about and thus ignored, but rather that thought on matters such as these afford no joy and thus are put out of mind.

I suppose I'm just in need a good chat, one of those talk-about-everything-until-time-no-longer-matters-but-to-track-the-length-of-this-amazing-conversation type chats. Why can't those be more common?

On pain

My inspiration comes from words that numb, weaving words of pain as the total sum of God's failure to reach into this world and draw out all the sickness and sin. Ironically, my spiritual filling comes in this gospel killing, heaven denouncing, emotional spilling that cannot be contained, explained or directed towards anything short of heaven's doors. In the overflow of heartbreak, as we demand reasons, we question the creator as though he delights in our misery. The universal reaches of hurt, vast as oceans are swallowed by us alone, as choking, we gasp for air and curse the very name that put us there. The roots of loss burrow into our hearts, binding that which is falling apart, keeping us together as we start to realize there's more to life while these waters dry. Uoward climb voices, as they curse or rejoice the constancy of the author of choice. With passion we scream until our lungs give out, shouting at a God whose own hurt we doubt, as if we could learn from experiencing the essence of suffering, anyways. As mankind sways, ebbing and flowing between wondering and knowing, leaning and standing strong, He who watches us wrong the world is on trial for our pain. Though we deny His very name, He becomes the source of blame when the world shakes, or hearts break as names make homes of tombstones. Still, as we look inward not upward, blinding ourselves to vision beyond our reach, it's as though while each loss He feels reveals vision beyond comprehension of sufferings unmentioned, he'll never feel what I feel.

Inner Monologue

While I find myself surrounded by others, I feel torn between a desire for isolation and the guilt of knowing I'm a social disappointment. It seems as though, with each passing day, I grow more disappointed with myself and this tension. I feel empty, in many ways, as though I'm missing out on life. It's a sinking, all consuming feeling that leaves me only desiring a further retreat from the presense of others. Throughout all this, I am only sickened by this self-pitying attitude that I gravitate towards, feeling as though there's some great separation between my true self and this negative persona inhabiting my thoughts. Truthfully I ask if integrity is of value when I feel so utterly disappointing, as if this complex problem would be solved by putting it on display. What analysis will lead to resolution? I know the answers, I feel, but it feels empty. I am vacant, with only hope that I shall soon overcome. Encouragement seems a burden, as in the light of sacrifice and grace I'm uninspired towards change.

I'll be home, in a little while, lover I'll be home.

That's my prayer.

An Apology

If the greatest thing I do is love you,
I'll leave a legacy of missed opportunities and disappointments,
the moments between laughs will forever haunt me,
aware that my best was short of my intention.

For every tear that falls, I'll spend a day in torment,
surrounded by the bellowing seas of worries and woes,
grasping for solid ground that my feet are not worthy to tread,
desperate to dry the eyes that bear your soul.

For what worth is there in knowing I've made repairs,
patched the holes I've punched before,
while I swore to keep you from harms reach?

I strive to protect, yet fail to perfect
the man I wish to be.

I am sorry.

The weight of the world

If I desired to remain the same, I'd never be disappointed in my inability to grow. But as it is, I'm a being motivated to change and develop, and my failures weigh heavily on my soul. Every instant in which I fall short of my potential, I feel the burdens mounting upon my shoulders. This weight presses and constrains, compresses and restrains the liberation of my mind, as mind-forged captivity consumes. To be better than the man within I must find strength beyond my reach; this is where dependency dwells. In the depths of a heavy heart, weighed down with worries and drearily dragged through disappointments, reliance is a last resort. If an imaginary figure is the sole source of salvation, then insanity is the realest response to the world's strife. As delusions abound in a world saturated with deception, nonetheless I believe. If faith is a crutch, I prefer to remain standing. The weight of my troubles presses, as this support digs in and leaves its mark. I've fallen before, yet all damage is to be repaired. If my belief is insane, then in this world I'll fit right in. If not, I eagerly await an ascension that overcomes the heaviness of the world.