Random roadkill of the mind

While ruminating on the differences between quotidian and everyday, ubiquitous and omnipresent, despondent and despairing ( know that they are synonyms, their interchangeability in common speech accepted; I’m talking about the subtle differences in denotation, the etymology, the heart of the linguistic matter, as it were), I was reminded once more how different are the routes of my mental meanderings from those of the people I interact with. With most, it would seem, such lucubration is undertaken only with some fixed goal in mind, a piece of the puzzle discovered, a step towards completion conquered. For me it’s rather an itch that demands scratching,

I’ve been called weird, or worse, for as long as I can remember. I’d like to think that I didn’t consciously cultivate that image, but I vaguely recall being in second grade at St. John’s in San Diego  chowing down on pencils, wood,lead, metal and rubber, in an effort to inspire the other kids to keep their distance. (Young children are brutal in their treatment of one another, unable yet to realize that the world most definitely does not revolve around them.If you’re quiet and keep to yourself they seek you out like sharks sensing blood in the water) While my young self yearned to enjoy as others did being part of the group, once accepted I felt even more alienated and uncomfortable. And while my pencil eating abated, my lack of comfort around others never fully did. I’m not anti social, just averse.

What’s amusing  is, throughout high school and college I was viewed by those not allowed to get close enough to “know” me as the life of the party, the easy going everyman.Excelling at sports I was easy to write off as a goofy, dumb jock. They didn’t realize that I consumed an immense amount of psychoactive substances in various forms just to appear to fit the accepted view of normal. That took a tremendous effort, and an equally tremendous toll, until I reached a point where I didn’t give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut what “society” thinks of me; the only important aspect was for me to be genuinely me.

I am not a terribly ambitious person. My ultimate purpose in life, as it seems to me it should be for all living creatures,is to die, to expire,for the ride to end. Death is the finish line, no more, no less. I don’t believe in an afterlife so I have no expectations of punishment or reward once I stop breathing. My dream is to fall asleep one night and simply never again awaken (actually, my fairy tale end features me on the Pest shores of the Danube, draining the dregs of a thick coffee and taking a deep drag from a Djarum International,and reading the closing lines of a Milosz poem when my heart simply ceases beating). And my goal in life is to have done more good than harm, more kindness than spite, to inspire more laughter than tears, more joy than sorrow.  That’s about it.

I don’t believe that life has any inherent meaning, rather it’s up to each individual, adrift in an ocean of chaotic contingency, to invent and impose his own meaning to his existence. I am aware that many, if not most, people won’t agree with this outlook for any number of reasons. I’m okay with that. I’m not looking for converts or to change anyone’s mind.

This is me.

Welcome to my world.

Thanks for stopping by.

(As always, another has already said what I mean far mor eloquently and articulately than I. So it goes)

Late Fragment

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

~Raymond Carver

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