30 November 2017
The question has become this: what use are words today? If I write and am misunderstood, misread, misconstrued, have I amounted to anything at all? In a world where the systems and structures in nearly all societies exist, and always have, to benefit the few, what can I do to remove myself from the cycle of consumption and the greedy, usury homeostasis that is Modern Culture?
My anarchy has laid the bedrock for which all of the actions in my life have been based to date. It has brought me here, concluding: the real good in writing and reading is that even if nothing is directly gained for the spirit, soul or mind then at least you have taken time away from the oppressive onslaught of advertising and propaganda that is ubiquitous in a world where screens scream when ignored. The time in which we use to read and write well, the honest moments, are done alone, in quiet contemplation. Clandestine. A rare respite in which a person may still be their self, think for their self, consider their self. I realized that even if what I write falls to the realms of dusty shelves and unclicked links it will not matter, the important thing will be that I said it, and said it as best I could.
While trying to shake the feeling that I have been running in place I realized that losing a feeling is not always the same as a real change. Complacency is a state of mind as much as it is a state of action. Confounding myself with countless distractions only served to bury me deeper. So, while I muster the strength and courage to do what must be done I will work within this small forum to try to move forward. Reading. Writing. Publishing. This is an invitation to anyone who has the same feelings, the same pause, the same fire. Number this in the places you know you are welcomed and respected. Visit and contribute, and I will do my best to engage.
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