Dreaming of Dylan.

When we come across a really good book, you can’t normally put it down, and wish to keep going - on the trains, on the daily breakfast table, before your morning paper, during tea, in-between bites of cucumber sandwiches, accompanying the daily regimen of bathing, cleaning between your ears, head, shoulders, knees and toes.

When we correlate to the astoundingly profound deficiencies of life, we ask: why are we incomplete? And why are we longing for that place that no one really has seen?

Is this the dream - to achieve or accomplish what no one else has, to expand the universe in which you have existed and now elevate yourself up on? I think the real challenge is to keep ourselves understand where we stand, and why we like things, and others not.

Sussing was a tad bit nerdy in my day, and as a teenager never really bothered or questioned - it was as if the ancients had it upon me the endless unlimited time that was something that was a perk in the paths that we had chosen to take.

Maybe that was an illusion, to consider ourselves charmed enough in our lives to have been enough to ourselves, and be contented in the processes that made our lives a little bit more. It was as if everything we did, and continue to do, are a blessing in disguise to ourselves - and to others. That falling in a rut wasn’t something that was entirely the choice of everyone, whether they wanted to, or planned it, or not.

Now, time is a resource that not everyone had participated in quite perfunctorily. And being terrified of the real basic premise of life that is to live it at the heights of being. Yuck, ick, gross. Would be the first reaction i would have uttered to something with the odd circumstance of never being at all bothered with being myself. Until it actually came up.

So the surest way to get this going: fall in love. Being in a state of love premised the fates that we are all destined to live as having that one purpose only. To understand the bases in which we all exist, whether it was mandated by family or not - to procreate, elongate the genetic minefields, or to carry on the line of heretics - for heritage’s sake. In this case, the purest form would be to have “fallen into it”, as it were a big dark hole in our path, that we weren’t really looking at - because we weren’t looking down, but at the horizon mostly - so how are we to get warning of what lurks beneath our feet? We simply stumble, fall, and realise there was a hole. (In that order).

So, in the case of being obtuse until we can no longer triangulate ourselves: we have reason enough in our brains to believe as we wish, as we are. This seems a loaded preposition to fuss about at long lengths. We collaborate with the ancients - and we bribe our ways out of hell - to adjust our lives into turning out the way we picture it, something that theorises what defined actual (not simulated, not placebo) happiness would be for us, at long last. Since we had been lucky enough to have fought for or even remotely equipped to handle the factors at hand, and understand what we are meant to be - we can actually function ourselves to that degree of probability and find that for ourselves, and even quite meaningfully, without giving up on the feminist (for her dignity), versus the prince charming factor (for his).

So, it’s all a bit narcissistic, isn’t it?

It’s not whittled down satisfactorily to a place where we are all quite happy with the outcomes. In fact, i do not know (pretty sure i don’t) what that entails, and what that actually looks like. Sadly, do not tell my grandmother. They are unfair in their knowledge - they are all-knowing in their day. And there are actually cultures that bear this “knowing” quite annoyingly, in their wake, and expect the rest of us to intuit the sort of thing that we have left-brained all our lives, and unwittingly, to fill those gaps we easily can fall into like a manhole, we intuit.

Does this answer the question of what holds dearly in our brains, apart from the medulla oblongata, that is quite responsive, to mmmm, chocolate cake?

Speaking of which..

(Written this at the second outlet of “the fancy cafe” - where zac and i spent lonely christmases, left in the wake of a career high, in an obtuse out-of-the-box existence.)

Linked to another article: Being Max