It has been awhile since I've written, and I'm not in the most stable of moods (am I ever?). I just can't seem to muster up the motivation to do anything anymore. I make appointments, and I go to them, I schedule classes, and I go to them. I do the work, I repeat.
I've recently come to discuss the status of two questions, or rather, debate the meaning and implication behind one question, which is really the only true philosophical question worth asking. As others put it "well I'm alive, so now what do I do with my life". My version is "well being alive is optional, so now what do I do with my life". So, I've gone about a search looking for reasons, and well, the question has no true answer that anyone can give me. While I imagine most people are content to let their lives continue on like a piece of meat left out to rot, with no real meaning or purpose, I am less so driven. As I have said before, the end result is all the same, so why bother going through it at all?
But I digress from self-righteous depressed rantings on suicidal ambitions and the futility of life.
The title of this post comes from my lack of ability to express myself. Not in said, written psychological methods, but in creative emotional outlet form. My guitar playing has good technique, but its composition is garbage. Graphic art has never really had the direct emotional release I am looking for, and was never my real strong point. I've thought about creative writing, but while I have some ideas brewing around, I don't have the infrastructure to put them all together, much less in any emotionally relieving form. So what does that leave me with? Well, a beer for one, as it seems to make the world a bit more tolerable. Though my alcoholic brother can attest to that much, it doesn't much solve the problem.
In closing, two quotes.
"How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!" - Hamlet, Act I, scene ii, lines 133-138 [Hamlet]
&
"...because no matter what, no matter how much money you make, no matter
how many gowns you bone, no matter how many times you groove like
NOBODY ever grooved before, in a hundred years or so, your dust.
Crumbling soot in a pine box, that our loved ones went all out for so
that you could be, crumbling soot in a pine box" - Highway, Johnny the Fox
..i'm such a perky gal.
I've recently come to discuss the status of two questions, or rather, debate the meaning and implication behind one question, which is really the only true philosophical question worth asking. As others put it "well I'm alive, so now what do I do with my life". My version is "well being alive is optional, so now what do I do with my life". So, I've gone about a search looking for reasons, and well, the question has no true answer that anyone can give me. While I imagine most people are content to let their lives continue on like a piece of meat left out to rot, with no real meaning or purpose, I am less so driven. As I have said before, the end result is all the same, so why bother going through it at all?
But I digress from self-righteous depressed rantings on suicidal ambitions and the futility of life.
The title of this post comes from my lack of ability to express myself. Not in said, written psychological methods, but in creative emotional outlet form. My guitar playing has good technique, but its composition is garbage. Graphic art has never really had the direct emotional release I am looking for, and was never my real strong point. I've thought about creative writing, but while I have some ideas brewing around, I don't have the infrastructure to put them all together, much less in any emotionally relieving form. So what does that leave me with? Well, a beer for one, as it seems to make the world a bit more tolerable. Though my alcoholic brother can attest to that much, it doesn't much solve the problem.
In closing, two quotes.
"How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!" - Hamlet, Act I, scene ii, lines 133-138 [Hamlet]
&
"...because no matter what, no matter how much money you make, no matter
how many gowns you bone, no matter how many times you groove like
NOBODY ever grooved before, in a hundred years or so, your dust.
Crumbling soot in a pine box, that our loved ones went all out for so
that you could be, crumbling soot in a pine box" - Highway, Johnny the Fox
..i'm such a perky gal.
"Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and dreams, try to love the questions themselves." Rainer Maria Rilke
ReplyDeleteOne thing I know for sure: You can't kill yourself if you've never been to Paris.