Title(optional) -Nothing is assured-

Hurried steps into the room. A quick glance, a rapid exchange. Words pour forth. Building in tempo. A gentle rain turning to thunder. A swell in a wave; passion and frenzy. Everything lain bare. The Truth, at last, making a triumphant entrance. Building, building, building, until it seems it will never end. Yelling, shouting the deepest unutterable thoughts and affection. But it cannot continue unabated. The exposition falters; the wave breaks; the storm has spent it’s fury. Everything has changed. Things can never return to the way they were, for good or ill. Awaiting the reaction. Will it be met with scorn, dismay, disgust? Embarrassment? Sorrow? Could one even hope to be met with gladness? With Joy? Emotions meeting in a fevered frenzy of excitement?

No.

The risk, too great. Nothing more than an idle flit of fancy. No need to upset your precariously balanced life. No need to make a scene, act a fool, or embarrass yourself. Keep up your facade, paint that selfsame smile you always have on your face. “Your husband”, you’ll ask, “is he well? And your children, surely they must have grown. I’ve not even met your youngest yet.” She’ll meet you with a pleasant response, perhaps offering some humorous anecdote of her son “Boys will be boys,” she will conclude. As the silence stretches on uncomfortably you may fabricate an appointment you have to make. “We should see each other soon,” you will say, and hope. She will reply with the pleasant lie, “Of course.” And each will go your separate way, two threads never to be spun together.

And that dearest reader, is something I had scribbled before I even knew what a blog was. So I guess I just plagiarized my own writing, oh the horror.

The creeping quiet

Restless. Idle movements and thoughts. A road beginning and ending at the same point. Nowhere. Nothing. Meaningless impulses, brought about by fatigue and too much time. Idleness. Not the devil’s plaything, but ego’s .Or perhaps they are the same thing, merely different names for a self concerned only inwardly. No grandstanding or soapboxes this evening. No re-examination of my own inner psych. No dreams, no fears, no hopes, or disappointments or regrets. Apathy, a numbing of the mind. A break from the norm. disjointed. blocky. Jumping from point to point. No fluidity this evening, no grace. Only the tapping of keys to remind me of the self. Conscience thought does not come easily or follow a natural order. I exist merely in the twitches of a foot in need of scratching, in the coolness felt from a breeze. I exist, no more. I become a placeholder, a point in space. Fatigue taking its tolls. The shrouding effects of the darkness beginning to exact their tribute. Vision and thought recede . I quiet as illusive rest creeps in.

Data Acquisition

Tranquility; the inner solitude of a mind attempting to examine itself. Knowing it will fail. Colored by bias, distorted by preconceptions, fogged by finite experiences to draw upon. The all important “I” weighted against the other selfs that coexist. The sometimes overly harsh judgement of self-character versus the ease at which it is to explain away all my faults and actions; the tight rope between the extremes of Narcissism and Self-loathing. Brief moments of insight, coupled with random tangents branching forth into a myriad of paths. Conversations I might have, things I might do, and what consequences I envision they entail. Idle thoughts, having little basis in what really will happen. Too often, I find things not working out the way I foresee; things that seem so trifling become harbingers of ruination while others that seem to spell doom are shrugged off with a smile. Yet I continue. Sometimes even my most grandiose flits of thought are superseded by the reality. But mostly I am wrong, I am wrong time and time again. Reality and expectations all to often come into dissonance, yet hopefully I can try to add these new insights to the system.

At other times, thoughts elude me. I struggle to define myself. Logic fails and unexpected emotions well up and burst forth. Shattering the illusions ration and logic. I say things I regret, make a fool of myself, and act an ass. But strangely enough, I’m glad it happens. I am not a machine, a non-feeling entity that can plug variables into an equation and spit out results. I am a fellow human being doing his best to figure out what this ride is all about. And since I’m going on twenty and don’t have much to draw from, I think I’ll need all the practice I can get.

So, final verdict from my near Godlike omniscience at the wise and sagacious age of nineteen? Keep up your analyzing Logan, but always, always, remember that things usually work out the best with a good deal of “winging” it.