An Evening

With an impending doom Jason laid upon his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was a friday evening in which he was shrouded by a darkness he had no control over. He was alone and as such delved into negative thoughts better not explored. Yet, as with many of his evenings, he had no way to stop them from clouding his mind and basking a darkness over his already fragile and sour mood. Jason thought of his countless flaws and his seemingly baseless qualities and toiled with self loathing and flirted with self hatred. With each passing week of loneliness and each passing failure Jason slowly closed his heart and suppressed his emotions hoping that someone would take the time and effort to break through. It occurred to him how doing so was in many respects selfish. He knew that those he loved, and those that loved him, had their own struggles and trepidation, and that "testing" them was in-itself a fruitless act for it did not truly express their love and feelings. As with all cycles of course, this was one he could not break. Yet Jason could not feel guilt free about telling how he was feeling to people who are both close and far in distance. He truly wanted them to ask, to delve, and to dig from him the many emotions and thoughts he was feeling, for that was the way in which he was able to express himself in a guilt free manner. 

Jason laid in bed. His phone by his side set to insure that if anyone contacted him he would be undeniably informed of the incoming form of menial human contact he so craved. He just wished for one text. One act of kindness in which a kind soul said "I know you aren't okay. Let's talk." It wasn't going to happen. Those forms of interactions, as he knows, only happens in movies, in which timing is impeccably set to create enough suspense and emotion to keep the viewer hooked, but not too much, for if they created to much it would be to painful and uncomfortable. Jason continued to lay silently in his bed, staring at the poorly painted ceiling. He tried he felt. He attempted to change things. At what point do you give up and accept the truth? At what point is trying no longer admirable but a tad pathetic and saddening? Weeks? Months? Years? Decades? He didn't have the answer. With all his evenings he never gains an answer. It was a vain act that never brought about any self-realization. Happiness, like all other human concepts Jason considered, maintained its transparent, translucent, and indescribable abstraction. 

He considered the term for hours, turning it in his mind to no avail. Always he came to a consensus that he seemed unlikely to be able to truly ever be as "happy" as everyone seemed to be. Jason was sure that everyone held a secret to life he did not know in which they had gained happiness and countless other idolized words and human concepts he could only thinly grasp. Jason looked at his open and cold computer and glanced at the time at the top of his laptop, it read 1:30 am. The night was still young and his mind was still restless. 

Jason died every night. No one knew it. They saw him smiling the next day, hiding a pain that he kept deep inside if only for societies sake, and maybe for himself. Some secrets, even the ones that ultimately destroy you, are kept for they give you a little more power. Knowledge is power they say. Jason would than rise the next day from his death, and look at the clock once again. He would scroll through Facebook and see his face on the screen, smiling. At that moment he was reborn, and he would walk out the door with a reborn demeanour that would last until the next evening, when he would face his death once more. 

A Letter

When I consider my predicament, I am filled with shallow sorrow. I lay night after night and consider my actions. I am never to sure of how I feel. During certain nights, I shed tears, for I am distraught with guilt and sadness. Other nights, when the moon is bright, and it glows into my room, I laugh, uncontrollably. When I was a child, I would read Shakespearean tragedies and laugh. I understand that my statement shall be perceived by some as melodramatic and maybe even petty. The thought of reading tragedies for comedic purposes is far from original, but my life is not original. I live within a box. I can feel the walls phasing closer and closer from me. The shifts act like the tides for I find they both correspond to the ebbs and flows of the moon. My first friend, and my last enemy, told me that she couldn't understand how the cosmos couldn't affect our lives and moods. I used to believe her, and in some respects I still do, yet, I feel deep within me that I am so distinctly small that the cosmos does not affect my life. I state this not because I disagree on our micro-finite importance; I state my position on the strength of that reality. We are so minute that the grotesque power and force of the universe do not have the time nor the reason to affect us. The statistical chance that we, being so small within a space practically infinite in size, would be directly, or even indirectly affected by the actions of the universe is highly unlikely. We might as well live within a vacuum within the universe itself. I still feel though, and I still live. 

Pondering on deep seeded philosophical issues does not tame my unabashed hunger for chasteness. Any action, when considered and analyzed on a macro-level of analysis, becomes morally and humanly inconsequential. I can redeem my actions through any number of logical paths, be it through religious, nihilistic, macro, and micro philosophical thought. Once I reach a logical end conclusion which absolves me of my "crime", I then add it to the concoction of salvations I have been brewing over the years. Wether I invoke Nietzsche, Kant, Hobbes, Plato, or Hegel, I have found my actions vindicated. 

Yet, I feel guilt. For although greater moral, amoral, and anti-moral thinkers than I have found a way to exonerate my conduct, I know what I did was wrong. I have a few theories. One is that despite my carefully considered and methodically researched absolutions, I cannot shed the truth that society, the very institution I committed my act against, is unwilling or unable to forgive me. It is a burden I must carry with me. Still, I find all my intellectualizing of the past has left a bitter taste in mouth. I have an instinctual, irrational, and tiresome irking that I am wrong. That I am evil. 

I can debate what "evil" is, and wether it is qualitative or the result of lacking virtue, or both, it is unimportant. I believe I am evil. My basic instincts, the very things that brought me to this place have not only enabled me to commit my acts of evil, but have confirmed what I feel deep inside. I continue to search for a rational conception that can override my instinctual beliefs of myself, for I feel that if I do not I shall die of laughter and of despair. I hope that you will not judge me harshly, for these walls are not meant to keep me from hurting you. They are meant to keep you at bay, and away from my mistakes. 

Sincerely yours,

Epimētheús

Two Art Forms (Thoughts)

The cathartic experience of writing stands counterintuitively to the cathartic experience of music. Both art forms represent a holistic role in my life, my psyche and my "happiness." They are, for lack of any originality, the Ying and Yang of my creative existence. Within the continuation of the previous well worn metaphor and reference, both music and writing exist within themselves, the two dots representing the connection between not just the two mediums of creation but all. Music drives my writing. When I write I put on an album and let the emotion funnel through me and unto the page while the well penned phrase of an engaging work of literature drives me to pick my my "Ax" and express the concrete ideals found on the page into a more than conceptual idea through music. Ying and Yang. 

Music is a rejuvenating force that exudes a raw reality that delves deep within my "soul." When I pick up my instrument of choice I am preparing to be struck by a force of electrical magic that brings me to an upright position. My back straightens and my legs feel firm upon the ground. I am encompassed by a confidence which I have been told changes my outward appearance to all around me. I am no longer the shy intellectual filled with assured uncertainty but I am more comfortable with the words I utter, the body I possess and the world I see before me. I know my place when I interact with the grounding power of metal and/or nylon strings strapped unto a wooden and metal musical contraption. It seems odd that such an obtuse and unimposing man-made object can morph a human being as it has morphed not only myself but many others. That transformation becomes an addiction that remains despite it being unveiled before a mirrored reflection in a room or a stadium filled with countless human interactions. It remains with you, and it becomes a part of you, it is not a persona but another truth that is found within, and a truth we have learned to love. 

Writing is a draining and evacuating experience for it leeches from me all the energy and emotion that I possess unto the page. I bleed upon the pages in which I unveil myself. When I hunch over my computer my body becomes frail and unnoticeable as my head slowly lowers closer to the screen of my emotional misfortunate and malignancy. The act of writings feels aligned to that of treating an illness through the metamorphic and semi-impermanent restructuring through destruction of ones body and mind. As the horrific transformation occurs I become witness to the pathetic-ness of my humanity, the wretchedness that delves inside my devilish exterior. The wretchedness fights for control of my nihilistic and feeble consciousness through the tools of depression and the voiding of hopefulness. The only way to set myself free from the pain is to splatter the bloody truths of this daily battle unto the fields of paper that align the cybernetic fabric of our modern 21st century society. The battle fields will almost undoubtedly be lost within the interminable cyber-universe, floating among countless expressive counterparts, a deafening call on the worthlessness of our emotional endeavours. Ones scars are unveiled for all to see and you unveil a horrendous truth that on the surface appears unsalvageable but in reality unveils the powerful ability for human change and growth. Hope and salvation becomes a part of you, and remains with you until the day you have succeeded, or even more likely failed. Either way the transformation is valuable and without it, I would not be the man I am today. 

Silence (Thoughts)

Today I want to write about silence, but as is often the case recently, I am wilfully and abjectly unable to focus coherently. My stream of consciousness flows from argument to counter argument constantly refining and redefining my stance and the nuance of my argument. My thesis statement is simple, that as a society we have less of an appreciation of silence, yet as I try to define silence be through action or lack thereof, I realize my stance is logically and perhaps even artistically inane. Despite the ramblings and twirling of my rational brain my instinctual and "gut" quadrant of my brain is telling me I am on to something. I will delve into my personal relationship with sound, an individually subjective but profound interaction which has had obtuse magnitude on my life. 

I am first and foremost a musician. I try to uncover a poignancy in my writing that rings with the power of a well place harmony. I try to study my fields of study with the concentration of a well versed musical piece and I try to converse in a rhythm pleasant to the ears. I attempt to link music into all facets of my life. I hold weakness in one manner, silence. Music and sound exist from absence,"silence," a term I am appropriating loosely for in reality silence is a concept and never a reality. As a musician they say music is as much about the notes you fail to play as the notes you do. Tempo, timing, and punctuation are the tools of any great musician, conversationist, and provocateur. As such you can see my fascination with our everyday interaction with silence and its impact on society and individual lives. 

Today, as with many days, I listen to podcasts, music, videos, language, conversation, traffic … the list is endless for even now I enjoy the sound of scraping shoes on a tile floor. We are bombarded by sound so we filter, re-filter, enhance, concentrate and consider. Yet I think we have too much sound in our lives, or more importantly, we bombarded ourselves with to much sound for the purposes of enjoyment and stimulation. I am very much guilty of that sin. I am constantly listening to some form of stimulation in hopes to uncover some nugget of enjoyment which can justify an exclamation of eureka.  By doing so I am ignoring the one principle of sound most important, the importance of silence. Indeed it is the lack of stimulation between the resounding stimulations I endure that are most important. The slow consideration of a well sounded point, note, word or phrase is as equally important as the the emitted sound itself. How often do we forget the basic principles that exist within all of our concepts, from the most minute to the largest. Sound and silence are intertwined within themselves as life and death. One does not exist without the other and more importantly one is not as profound and beautiful without the other. We neglect when we forget this relationship.

I cannot say that I will be able to use this line of thinking to introduce greater "silence" into my life for it is difficult. We are wired to search, interact, and explore. Our curiosity has driven our species to some incredible heights yet I fear not our progression but out litter. We will continue down the road towards progress and continue to attain amazing feats of ingenuity along the way, but with a lack of silence we shall also litter the roads with unrealized potential and realizations. Epiphanies shall lay dormant upon the rails of yesterdays experiences and that to me is a tragedy of silent and un-echoed proportions.  

The Changing Nature Of Social Media (Thoughts)

Social media has changed how we, as a society, interact with each other. There are numerous debates on how social media should be used properly, safely, and in a manner which would insure that our lives are enriched. In a perfect world the above goals would be easily attainable and more importantly be implement quickly and efficiently. Sadly our utopian goals are rarely the reality. What makes social media so difficult to adapt to is its ability and necessity to mutate exponentially. For every new tool that is created and appropriated by the social consciousness of the online society there appears to be two similar tools with slight differing nuances, for every Instragram there is a Pinterest and Snapchat, social platforms that hold similar ideas but offer nuanced specifications that allow the app, website, or idea to live within its own cybernetic niche. Everyday the push for greater individualization is driving the software market and changing the face of social media and the online experience. The market is changing faster than we can adapt. 

I will outline my own recent personal experience with the changing phenomenon that is social media. A few weeks ago a personally close friend was jumped and physically beaten for reasons that remain unimportant. My friend was forced to go to the hospital and had to receive numerous stitches to close a substantial gash that existed above his right eyebrow. On the funnier side he now looks a little more like Harry Potter (perhaps it will help him in his romantic endeavours). This is similar to what occurred to myself a handful of years ago (three years ago to be exact) in which I was also beaten up and was forced to receive stitched for a major wound to my bottom lip. There seems to exist only minimal differences between our nefarious experiences, except how we unveiled our wounds to our immediate peers and counterparts. I used to medium of texting and Facebook to inform my immediate social group of what had occurred to me while my friend used the medium of Snapchat, in which one sends a purposefully fleeting and ephemeral picture which than disappears after a set time and can never be seen again. 

So why is this important? Because how we communicated a similar experience was vitally different within a short period of time. Just as importantly we both exist within the same age bracket and social environment. We are both tackling the same major in political science, we both come from middle class families and are both similar in personality and passions. We are a perfect example of a most similar case study, two similar people who have a similar experience but react differently. 

So why did we react differently? clearly it is because we had access to different tools. That is obvious, but what makes it even more interesting is that in a very short period of time, barely 3 years, we had access to intrinsically unique tools. It is undeniable that the landscape of social media has mutated, has adapted, and has modified to changing needs. I received the Snapchat from my friend at 4 in the morning, allowing me to give him sympathetic immediacy that I was unable to enjoy. I had to wait hours before being gifted with the gift of comfortable reassurance from a respected peer or authority figure. My friend was able to access such needs, and with greater visual context, quicker and more frequently. Yet, does that mean we should have such social accessibility? The problem is that when we are tackling with the above issue the technology will become socially obsolete and replaced. Welcome to the twenty first century. 

A Discussion Of the Short Narrative (Thoughts)

What can be said about the short narrative, no matter the form? As a writer I live within the confinements of the short narrative, be it poetry, short stories, short essays, or even my to-often Facebook status updates. Indeed the world I am confined within, the world I have grown in many respects to abhor, has given rise to my own appreciation of the short narrative form. I am a creation of my environment no matter how hard I attempt to fight it. I live my literary potential within the power of two doubled spaced pages.  

Recently Alice Munro won the Nobel Prize in Literature, cited as a "master of the contemporary short story." The short narrative form, through never maligned and highly respected, rarely gets the respect it deserves. It doesn't hold the magical artistic appeal of the "Great" all encompassing novel. Such novels, be it War and Peace or the the more modern Infinite Jest, hold a grandeur on the minds of writers and readers alike. Lovers of literature wish to delve and tackle the magnum opus for it promises greatness, perhaps a shrivel of truth that we can keep warm under our pillows and hold till we breath our last breath and utter our last unmemorable utterance. Yet the short narrative form has proven to become increasingly useful and meaningful, holding as many "truths" as the magnum opus we all wish to read and/or write. 

The power and struggle of the short narrative is the need to speak with as little as possible, to say great things with the minimalism of a deep seeded epiphany. The world has began to ask for this tiny miracle more often than ever before. With a world of information, I site exhibit A the internet, there seems to be a greater need for a reductionist soul, someone able to encompass an entire thought in a sentence; some are more than able to expound upon such wit. The comedians that control and bring insight to Twitter, the world of 140 characters (what an absurd length for such as myself), have shown they can bring forth and encapsulate the absurdities and fallacious elements of humanity with the freedom and bravery (perhaps stupidity) of an iconoclastic Jester. So why are we still clinging to that magnum opus, does it hang upon our neck like an albatross cursing us as it did the ancient mariner?

Perhaps not. I cannot say that I have the focus of my predecessors, lord knows I am unable to focus on my own writing past two pages, as I have mentioned before, but does that mean that my entire generation is cursed as I? With the attention and memory span of a goldfish but the intelligence and material resources of all past generations combined? When the "written word" was first invented the Greeks debated on the price of such a tool, as simple as it may seem to us, and they worried that memory, a tool used to tell great and all encompassing stories such as the Iliad, would be lost and what would that mean for humanity? The debaters and maligners of writing proved prophetic for we do not possess such memorial powers but we have gained the ability to understand and comprehend more conceptual realities than ever before, drowning in our present digital sea while often ignoring the perils of "surfing" the network of seemingly infinite websites overflowing with information and opinions at our fingertips. 

Yet our humanity has not changed, the great magnum opus was respected (though for them it was the epic poem), and the short narrative form was left at the wayside, known to be beautiful, profound, and sadly un-idealized and under utilized. That doesn't change though that to say so much without seeming cumbersome or to say so little without seemings uninspired are the struggles that every writer, musician, poet, painter, artist and conveyer of reality share. They share in the struggle if not in the majesty. 

What Path Would You Choose?

White noise. All I hear is white noise from white voices who wear white shirts and shoes and who drink white wine from white chalices. White. Its post-translucent qualities add a cold nuance to the perpetually disinfected and hygienic lives I am caught in. White. All my friends are white and all my enemies are white. Everything is write, monochromatic. When I wake and open my eyes from the only darkness I am able to envision I feel the sharp pain of sharpness behind my eyeballs when gazing upon the clearness of white that perpetually surounds me. How long have I been here? How long will I stay? Did I come here on my accord? All unanswerable questions. I know we could find some form of unit to expound on the idea of time but when units can be infinitely divided or expanded it doesn't mean a fucking thing, I don't know how to answer any of my questions. 

Today is like any other day. I wake and remove myself from clean and crisp bed sheets which are barely tussled by my pre-comatose sleep. I wear equally clean and crisp bed attire, looking as if I am another piece of matching furniture in my room. If I stood infinitely still I would slowly meld into the background. I could picture a family walking through my home, seeing if they wished to purchase the medium sized condo, and failing to notice the young man standing perfectly still. Perhaps a lamp shade on my head would help complete the scene. 

I would carefully walk to my bathroom and turn on the tap and wash my face with the translucent water which escapes in a less than impressive torrent of streaming sound. From there I would leave my room into my kitchen and ingest my white plain eggs on white bread toast and perhaps, if I am feeling adventurous and in need of some stimulation, watch some television. Perhaps I would watch the news in order to remind myself how un-terrible my life was. The perpetual boredom was a firm and strong ideal compared to the terribleness of war, famine and disease. 

My mouth would move mechanically as I ate my barely organic food. The crunch of bread unsurprisingly acted as the soul human sound in the home, emitting a sadness which can only be possible when human actions are done robotically. Then a break would emerge from the pathetic existence when I would take part in the only pleasure of the morning, the yolk of my egg. The yellowness which emitted my light would break from its thin and frail mould and spill forth. I would greedily suck on the edge of the egg making sure every aspect of that yellow orgasm enters my oral cavity and allows a shiver of palette encompassing joy leak through my frigid and calculated body. The warmth of it would set me free for a few moments and I would close my eyes, once again incapsulated by the beautiful colourlessness of darkness and let the only instance of joy cling for as long as is humanly needed. Than the moment would end and I would clean my single plate, wipe down the counter, and clean myself in white, brush my teeth in white and lick my lips to whiteness. 

I am a 20 to 30 white male, I am intelligent and I am socially awkward. I am the most monstrous demographic in the world, the most likely to be a serial killer and numerous other horrifying characters in the world. I am also incredibly pathetic and meticulously structured in my existence. I have two paths laid before me, the coldness of my white existence or the path towards monstrous anonymity. What path would you ultimately choose?