Inspiration
I encountered an entity today, one that has hijacked my thought processes. Hijacked for most people has some negative connotation, but in this instance, may not be the most accurate verb to choose from, but it gets the point across.
She is absolutely striking. I feel as if a bolt of lightning has reached out of the nether and enveloped me for just long enough to get my attention, and leave my ears ringing in it's absence. Altogether unique, yet I'm glad it doesn't happen every day.
In my nihilistic interpretation, my pragmatic self opines: yeah, ok, so she's hot, but you got like 0% (read 0.0000001%) chance of ever connecting with this person, and my most basest neurotic self chimes in, even if you did, even if she saw in you everything you like to delude yourself into thinking makes you special, even if it was the better for both of you than dying men being visited by angels, you'd inevitably fuck it up. Or she would.
See what I deal with every day? Usually it's not this bad, but this inspiration, from my experience of this magical creature, is the only actual tangible component of our interaction that I might benefit from. I plan on putting it to good use.
What, you may ask, am I being so excessively verbose about?
She is my muse. Through no fault of her own, without any effort on her part, and in spite of virtually every internal barometer alarm bell ringing in my ears (or is that the lingering remnants of the existential cosmic lighting that struck me earlier, it's hard to tell), she has instantaneously become a significant source of creative motivation in my life. Not the only source, but a significant source none the less.
It's hard not to get caught up in the specifics of this revelation, to not focus on her or who she is, or what it would like to be in her physical presence, the sound of her laughing uncontrollably, or what her angelically expressive face might look like in the midst of an earth shattering post coital incandescence.
Sweet Chocolate Fiddlin' Jesus and Sister Theresa GOD it's hard not to think about the utopian blissful clouds of everlasting dopaminergic overload that would construe being united with this woman; to not roll in, bask in, immerse, ingest, fortify or obsess about these conjectures- no that's the danger of the muse.
But to discard inspiration at the first (although quite reasonably absolutely horrific) inclination toward grievous personal existential jeopardy would be to "throw the baby out with the bath water", as it were. I may not care to have children of my own, but I by no means advocate ejecting them any significant distance.
Say what you like about the seemingly inevitable stride of technological civilization toward social and economic stratification (along with the destruction of our natural environment, see my desire not to have children above), I'm left with little but to make lemonade1.
1. The lemon being, in this case, that we'll never meet.
See, I already have numerous relationships which some might call dysfunctional, but I refer to lovingly as a shining examples of ethical utilitarianism. I have a certain proclivity for singers, and I have relations with some of the greatest. They anoint me with their sweet siren serenades at my convenience (as long as my battery is charged), and before any personal disillusionment can take place, they drift back into the nether, waiting to be summoned again. They never get jealous of each other, or of my desire to do other things. We never have arguments about which direction our relationship is headed. They never make me feel like I'm supposed to be doing something more or something different or something more practical. No, these women accept me as I am, unequivocally, always.
We may not be lovers, I cannot touch them, they don't keep the bed warm on cold nights, I can't go out with them on my arm and feel like a stud because they see something in me that others may not. They don't snuggle with me watching movies, or ask me to help them carry something heavy for them, but that's ok, because our relationship isn't about these things.
No, they've created their works irrespective of who I am. I accept that. But for their own reasons they were driven to do so, and I reap the benefits.
Song for all occasions, lovelorn heartache, celebratory jubilation, quiet reflection, tender loving moments, passionate desire and the occasional angst ridden diatribe. They offer up their personal sonic interpretations that can help punctuate my emotional landscape. For this, I am eternally loyal to them.
And this brings me back to my muse; for it is not who she is or what she chooses to do. Those are details that concern me not. To be sure, she is sexy, intelligent, and a little loony; a combination which for reasons which remain a mystery to me has been fairly consistent in my personal relationships with women over the years. Indeed, I would be quite enamored with her were we actually to meet. But this is of no practical purpose to me here, now, ever.
The fact is, if I were to meet this woman, I would be an insecure, blubbering neurotic idiot. If I found myself in her immediate physical presence, I would experience immediate and severe gastrointestinal distress.
Why? Because to be confronted with the reality of her would be to necessarily reflect the reality of who I am, and who I am not.
The purpose of me writing this paper, beyond the exercise itself and amongst myriad other motivations, is to illustrate the internal dynamic which will compel me to reconcile my appreciation for the absolute beauty of the universe with my existential cognitive dissonance to arrive at some deeper perspective which will allow me to continue on the path I have chosen for myself.
To put it as succinctly as I can, and to quote Jack Nicholson in the process: "you make me want to be a better man".
To persevere in the face of insurmountable odds, to persist in the untenable conditions of adversity, to pervert every paradigm insinuating that I should concede, abdicate, surrender, be more practical, get a real job, give it up, get real, grow up. To refuse "to go gentle into that good night", to "rage, rage against the dying of the light", this is what I will continue to do.
I am a good person, I am not great. You have helped to reawaken and reinforce my attempts toward greatness. For that, I am eternally in your debt.
I pray to god I never meet you*.
* But... I'm an atheist and romantic, so technically, that doesn't count for much.
I encountered an entity today, one that has hijacked my thought processes. Hijacked for most people has some negative connotation, but in this instance, may not be the most accurate verb to choose from, but it gets the point across.
She is absolutely striking. I feel as if a bolt of lightning has reached out of the nether and enveloped me for just long enough to get my attention, and leave my ears ringing in it's absence. Altogether unique, yet I'm glad it doesn't happen every day.
In my nihilistic interpretation, my pragmatic self opines: yeah, ok, so she's hot, but you got like 0% (read 0.0000001%) chance of ever connecting with this person, and my most basest neurotic self chimes in, even if you did, even if she saw in you everything you like to delude yourself into thinking makes you special, even if it was the better for both of you than dying men being visited by angels, you'd inevitably fuck it up. Or she would.
See what I deal with every day? Usually it's not this bad, but this inspiration, from my experience of this magical creature, is the only actual tangible component of our interaction that I might benefit from. I plan on putting it to good use.
What, you may ask, am I being so excessively verbose about?
She is my muse. Through no fault of her own, without any effort on her part, and in spite of virtually every internal barometer alarm bell ringing in my ears (or is that the lingering remnants of the existential cosmic lighting that struck me earlier, it's hard to tell), she has instantaneously become a significant source of creative motivation in my life. Not the only source, but a significant source none the less.
It's hard not to get caught up in the specifics of this revelation, to not focus on her or who she is, or what it would like to be in her physical presence, the sound of her laughing uncontrollably, or what her angelically expressive face might look like in the midst of an earth shattering post coital incandescence.
Sweet Chocolate Fiddlin' Jesus and Sister Theresa GOD it's hard not to think about the utopian blissful clouds of everlasting dopaminergic overload that would construe being united with this woman; to not roll in, bask in, immerse, ingest, fortify or obsess about these conjectures- no that's the danger of the muse.
But to discard inspiration at the first (although quite reasonably absolutely horrific) inclination toward grievous personal existential jeopardy would be to "throw the baby out with the bath water", as it were. I may not care to have children of my own, but I by no means advocate ejecting them any significant distance.
Say what you like about the seemingly inevitable stride of technological civilization toward social and economic stratification (along with the destruction of our natural environment, see my desire not to have children above), I'm left with little but to make lemonade1.
1. The lemon being, in this case, that we'll never meet.
See, I already have numerous relationships which some might call dysfunctional, but I refer to lovingly as a shining examples of ethical utilitarianism. I have a certain proclivity for singers, and I have relations with some of the greatest. They anoint me with their sweet siren serenades at my convenience (as long as my battery is charged), and before any personal disillusionment can take place, they drift back into the nether, waiting to be summoned again. They never get jealous of each other, or of my desire to do other things. We never have arguments about which direction our relationship is headed. They never make me feel like I'm supposed to be doing something more or something different or something more practical. No, these women accept me as I am, unequivocally, always.
We may not be lovers, I cannot touch them, they don't keep the bed warm on cold nights, I can't go out with them on my arm and feel like a stud because they see something in me that others may not. They don't snuggle with me watching movies, or ask me to help them carry something heavy for them, but that's ok, because our relationship isn't about these things.
No, they've created their works irrespective of who I am. I accept that. But for their own reasons they were driven to do so, and I reap the benefits.
Song for all occasions, lovelorn heartache, celebratory jubilation, quiet reflection, tender loving moments, passionate desire and the occasional angst ridden diatribe. They offer up their personal sonic interpretations that can help punctuate my emotional landscape. For this, I am eternally loyal to them.
And this brings me back to my muse; for it is not who she is or what she chooses to do. Those are details that concern me not. To be sure, she is sexy, intelligent, and a little loony; a combination which for reasons which remain a mystery to me has been fairly consistent in my personal relationships with women over the years. Indeed, I would be quite enamored with her were we actually to meet. But this is of no practical purpose to me here, now, ever.
The fact is, if I were to meet this woman, I would be an insecure, blubbering neurotic idiot. If I found myself in her immediate physical presence, I would experience immediate and severe gastrointestinal distress.
Why? Because to be confronted with the reality of her would be to necessarily reflect the reality of who I am, and who I am not.
The purpose of me writing this paper, beyond the exercise itself and amongst myriad other motivations, is to illustrate the internal dynamic which will compel me to reconcile my appreciation for the absolute beauty of the universe with my existential cognitive dissonance to arrive at some deeper perspective which will allow me to continue on the path I have chosen for myself.
To put it as succinctly as I can, and to quote Jack Nicholson in the process: "you make me want to be a better man".
To persevere in the face of insurmountable odds, to persist in the untenable conditions of adversity, to pervert every paradigm insinuating that I should concede, abdicate, surrender, be more practical, get a real job, give it up, get real, grow up. To refuse "to go gentle into that good night", to "rage, rage against the dying of the light", this is what I will continue to do.
I am a good person, I am not great. You have helped to reawaken and reinforce my attempts toward greatness. For that, I am eternally in your debt.
I pray to god I never meet you*.
* But... I'm an atheist and romantic, so technically, that doesn't count for much.
J