The world cannot tell you, who you are.
Posts Categorized: Ramblings
tired. dirty. and with a horrible raccoon tan.
at the end of the day, the most important thing is to come home alive, intact. more often than not, even the most mundane of things are left for granted. the beauty of our travels is found not only during the journey itself, but more importantly in the journeys we partake afterwards. to appreciate all once again, in our views, that have turned into the ordinary.
time is spent searching for some sense of fulfillment across all levels of satisfaction, from temporary physical comforts to an intangible sense of well-being. whilst fulfillment can transcend even the conscious limits we imprison ourselves with, the beauty of our freedom is the ability to choose what we desire. from the simplicity of rendering yourself into a puddle of blubbering waste in front of the telly, through the spectrum of dedicating your life into a purposeful existence – you can only be who you choose to be. the world can slow you down, but the damage it can do is only what you allow it to become.
all this time spent asking, discovering, seeking. sometimes i wonder if the answer really matters as much as the question does.
distractions of the day-to-day grind are at rest during the late hours of the night. where we can listen to the mind’s careless whispers, otherwise overrun by the noise of what we perceive as the ‘real world’. another bout of meaningless mind calisthenics at the cube farm, watching the financial markets in another roil, your conscience yelling behind your shoulder. all of which are shut out, or at least dormant for the time being as the moon begins its nightly crawl through the stars. ‘listen to me!’ is what your heart silently screams.
and in the solace of silence we can begin to both ponder and get lost at the same time, allowing ourselves to be who we are in careless abandon, without regard for the knee-jerk impulses and soul-sapping commitments that burden our days when the alarm goes off at 5:30am.
each. and. every. day.
in observance of today’s lovine holiday, i’d like to solicit comments from my faithful readers, stalkers, co-workers, admirers, haters, lovers, friends, foes, countrymen, and all beings that may happen to stumble across this small corner of nonsense.
domo sankyuu and good tidings. :)
hiding in the detail are clues of the bigger picture. hiding in the bigger picture are clues of the importance of detail. lost in between, are the waking moments of our lives.
what damage can the world do once you decide that you don’t care?
peter: ur lame
patience is a virtue
lovine: your virtue is expendable
your virtue is collated and abused like the millions have done before it
your virtue is used against you to skew your perceptions of what is appropriate, and your perceptions are skewed towards the direction of what the capitalist pigs of america want you to percieve
that shareholder wealth is your wealth
that money will buy you happiness
that the pursuit is noble
that patience is a virtue
Sent at 6:47 PM on Monday
peter: so tacit acknowledgment of this fact always brings me happiness, for i feel no guilt.
lovine: does a clean conscience buy you eternal solace?
peter: perception = reality
lovine: my perception is that you’re a peterphile
there’s always a little void that i’m looking to fill in the realm of my art, my profession, and all facets shaped by who you are. apart from the choices you make, the detail of your work underlines your reflection. apart from merely existing, you’ll need to define yourself. in the same way that economies need sustained growth, our pursuits need to be supplemented by taking risks, and internalizing even more practice. by taking it up a notch, you are allowing yourself to take it up another notch higher…
can’t wait for the beginning of another weekend. as short as it may be, it’s one of the perks after the weeklong doldrums of soul selling. the stakes are high, and we owe it to ourselves to risk a little, wear hearts on our sleeves, and conquer the streets that are littered with bored souls.
america wants you to think that work buys money buys happiness. my bumper sticker thinks fun buys laughter buys life.
and when you’re lucky, it’s for free too.
lost in the snazzy bits of reality? trying to get cohesive thoughts of reason together to fabricate an escape plan from the grind? the literal dimensions of a cube is at the mercy of the walls you can construct and deconstruct with the gray matter between your ears – space and freedom are relative. an endless faucet drips a primordial soup of incomplete thoughts, half baked feelings, and swirlpool of forgotten emotional baggage on the shoulders of the weary traveler. who stops to smell the flowers but forgot to remind the cat that the world should stop turning at 5:30 so he went home instead. heavy eyelids are my only crime, from a dusty day of cube farming. and so with quiet fingertaps on the keyboard i give the final salute to another day’s dollar on the powerful all-american paycheck – thank you for allowing me to succumb to the temptations of greed, false pretensions of power, fast cars hot chicks new guitars, and to live the american dream in my new underwear.
it’s weird how much effort it takes to not make sense, when you consciously understand that you probably don’t during most of the day.
i don’t care, anymore.
except for the other things that matter.
i started this blog four years ago, an empty slate to jog my memory and exercise my thoughts. when hundreds of thoughts run through your head during the day, so much can be kept or so much can be lost to the routines of responsibility. and so i sat myself down every couple of days to do some soul stretching of sorts. it felt like that workout when you’ve been dormant for awhile, and discover a few places you never knew existed because they start smarting a few days later. it’s the same pain of discovery because i never really wrote.. when you’re in the final throes of collegiate tomfoolery, any random outlet of expression becomes fair game. and so i kept writing. when i felt like it. what i felt like writing. to express simple sentiments. to play with conjectures of reason. to have fun. to make something. to take ownership of my lost thoughts.
life is a warm vinyl record filling the room. across walls of orange toned photographs and watercolor forests, pencil sketches and album covers. sitting on the foot of the bed. or dancing. nothing in tow but sincerity, no promises except for getting drunk on high spirits. mysteries never ready to reveal, curiosity that is never lonely. sun jars glowing on the balcony, home-made melodies that last well beyond the night’s slumber.
i got lost for a few seconds tonight while i strummed a few notes on the guitar that hasn’t sang in a while. i whispered a few words into someone’s sleepy dream. and for a few seconds i felt that i was really communicating something. no matter if the audience had been asleep, or the notes were off kilter. but the reality of what i wanted to say was how it came out. quite rare, considering i maintain a constant struggle to validate abstract thoughts and feelings into jumbled words, pixelated images, random knickknacks that never really answer the questions posed by my mind’s imagery. but for a few seconds tonight, i found my own footing. and quite apt, that half of it was shared in a dream..