Bad, vile and meaningless: Withering from Alan's clob

Withering

This kind of title would deserve to have some kind of collection of pictures: healthy trees slowly losing leaves in progression of autumn, and then perhaps some damaged tree in the end, little better than oily brickle protruding through ice. If I bothered to develope my blogging thing a little, I'd add some metadata to each blog, like requests for alternating colour schemes, or something like that.

Now I make do with less time and effort than I would like. Today feels like a winter of the heart and soul. It's far apart from the reality of outside, which is so hot that even a thought of wearing a single shrewd of clothing is making me sweat profusely.

During when we live, we seem to willingly isolate ourselves in our caves, and build our little barriers in order to experience the brickle sort of realities that I outlined above. I've isolated myself in my cave, and I've done it quite voluntarily. The ice freezes your eyes open, and I watch the autumn wind blowing snow outside. The ice layer is thin and easy to break, but I'm content at not making a move.

That is how isolation feels. It is also part of how I feel, but details are murkier. Do I have some kind of base emotion that I live upon, or is it all just interaction with environment? I'm not quite sure. When I sit alone in my room, and look at things in this fashion, it's hard to say if I have an emotional existence, or whether it's all just reactions to actions. And I must consider whether that is true of anyone else. It's easy to feel exhiliriated, happy, bright, cheery, alive, and open to the world when you have a friend around you, and I know there are people out there who immensely prefer the latter sort of emotion. To me, they are all just options of existence, and I'm happy to be in winter just as I'm happy to be at summer, and most of the time I prefer transitions in-betweens anyway.

Still, if there is one thing that is true, it is that my heart aches for love when I consider myself sitting alone like this. A bit of solitude interspersed with a bit of love makes me a happy man. Like a beach when the waves roll in, at a moment you're wet and alive, and sprouting, and then you're dry again, and nearing what others would consider death, or at least a state very much to be avoided.

Don't mistake my purpose of writing. It is to simply document who I am, and it is not something you should take responsibility for: whether I'm happy, or sad, and consider it a failure if I'm latter and success if it's former. It's not like that. I want to be free to go up and down, because I think ultimately I thrive of change, and of chance to experience different aspects of living. Let me do that without taking responsibility for how I feel.

I desire in my heart to be free, because in freedom only I can love, and be who I must be if I am to be whole, if I am to be the fantastic person that I have always dreamt of growing into. I feel like I have achieved much, even if I realize that in my past years I've lost my way, and got stuck in circles. I'm aware of it now, and I'm looking for a solution.