A Sort of Nothing

So here I am, at the keys, attempting to express a mole-sized smear of how I feel on a daily rotation.

Not a basic task really.

I have a basket full of human English words which are entertainingly descriptive, and eye-catchingly delightful - like bell-bottom pants. The fare I can make with these words, however, is something like a kid's mud pie - indistinct, bland, with sticky bits showing.

So how do I feel? And why the fuck would anyone care? Well, in a small shell which probably contains nuts - they don't, care that is. The progressive learning of this has formed a newly transformed version of how I feel. The latest version seems more welcoming, roomy, quite surprisingly comfortable, with large bookshelves filled with volume after volume of 'thank fuck for that'.

What I am saying underneath that is 'I don't care in amounts equal to that level at which others don't care'. What a relief.

When I got to having this attitude to my interaction with human life, and how, is all excruciatingly unimportant. Why? Because no-one gives a fuck. Really.

I am an expression of some kind of nothing, every second hearing an impersonal directive to be something. Something meaningful, something happy, something useful, something beautiful, something contextual, something clever, something creative, something successful, something not nothing.

Yet there it is, like the evergreen pine, never fading at my Core, the unknowable expanse of nothing.

It translates into human life as ‘depression’, ‘despair’, ‘anxiety’, 'dis-interest' I suppose. What I do know is that for a long while I have had an increasing inner question of 'why bother?'. As in why bother with humanity, why bother engaging and adding to the pool of what humanity is creating, when I do not find any of it noteworthy? Oh for sure, it can be amazing, astounding, creative, imaginative, skilled, beautiful, expressive; but for all that - what does it accomplish other than the perpetuation of itself?

And what does the human animal contribute to the planet, or even cosmos, besides the damage of its presence and moments of fixing that damage so it can feel a sense of expansion from the achievement?

As an opinion relevant to an interpretation of the practicality of popularly presented concepts, and a field of thought incorporating the notion that much is redacted from the human mind data pool across eons, I do not believe that the present human mind/body complex is ascending to any place of greater understanding or higher resolution of consciousness than that which it has occupied for unrecorded millennia. It is a creature of patterns, some grand some less so. If you observe sufficiently, every behavioural choice can be seen within its originating design and the outcome can be mapped according to the templates already drawn.

How does the conscious mind within the form transpose itself into a new Song - some melody beyond the simple choruses and trills which have played over and over for thousands of years?

~ A paradox spoken. The shift of state will be the outlay of unexpected inspiration greater than the investment of countless cycles.