Depravity and Devolution
What I think is more than what I write. But writing helps to encapsulate my thinking, allowing me to revisit and rewrite a vehicle of ideas – “my” ideas. In hopes that my ideas can find connection with others who meet this vehicle. But since I do not share what I think in audio or in conversation, I must settle and master the symbolic way.
What I do – my work – is more than what I write about it. For in writing I might deceive myself about my own work, its integrity as it relates to my self. But also, in writing, I can expand the extent of my work with creativity.
Hence word in writ, and work in writ. What I think, how I see things transpire, is shoehorned into a written piece. What I do I reflect upon through these magical symbols on a page (dangerously reductionistic, I know). This will be my basic format going forward.
word in writ
I want to recognise that many of my old posts can be quite depraved in imagination and thinking. The quality and coherence of my past blogs fluctuate a ton, devolving into mad tangents about just words at some times, and at other times, being militantly rigid about quoting and referencing my sources of inspirations. It’s like my mind would evolve in its sanity, then devolve back into insanity later.
It’s a hot mess.
And I would suggest to those who read my rants. Be careful, be discerning, and feel free to laugh as hard as you will – in a genuine manner. I can get strangely passionate about certain things for a time – but for only a time.
I have the beginnings of realising this – I am a wishy-washy person.
Hence the inconsistency of my writing prose, the frequency of my posts, and etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
As if the word “etcetera” was a magic word that conjures up the exact list of the unwritten words in your mind as they appeared in my mind.
work in writ
It is 352 days since I started this mad Shabbatical, the integrity of its meaning stripped by my vain attempts to find achievement and acceptance in all the wrong places. It is in the haze of mid-afternoon when I wrote this, after depriving myself – hating myself – of sleep for two nights in the role, playing digital games on PC and mobile. Achieving emptily, to no satisfaction, but a mad, unhealthy, soul-crushing, heart-numbing, prolonged act. “Hell and destruction are never full. So is the eyes of man.” as I read today with my church mate, who I have not divulged completely about my life so far. For my life is filled with death, and I am rightly ashamed.
The fig leaves are my very few instances (6-7 in a year) of applying for a job, my monolith task of writing up a personal textbook for the local syllabus for high school physics, and my inconsistent help with the household chores.
Off to get more fig leaves. Better not be poison-ivy leave again. I have done that too many a time. “Remember, and let me go” I would say to myself.
a nobody out