Populating Meaning, ?%

At this point in my life, my interactions with other people start to mean things.

I am no longer complaining that my existence is banal and trivial.  My life now has significance.

Safeties off, as I've forgone the nets that I could always return to.  I'm far too proud for that.  I refuse to accept any role that takes away my agency.  I am avidly the expression of my soul.

There is a lot more gravity in life than I am used to.  Fiction expands the horizons of my mind, and exploration in the knowledge of my own world grounds those shining imaginative comprehensions in the world that I can affect.

I am far too sensitive to that gravity.  I process my perceptions deep in my soul, perceiving events and circumstance at my core, internalizing the events of the world as the events of my world.  I am not separate or distinct from the world that I witness.  I am not a bystander, and I cannot evade responsibility.

Now, as I begin to enter the adult world, I feel the weight of everything that I can see, as if I have to find the golden bullet to cure all of our ills.  I can't separate myself from the future that we can so easily predict.

I want to know everything so that I can do everything.  So that I can save the world from the evils we agree are evils.  So that I can absolve the damned of their cruel fates.  So that I can find a way to escape the vicious cycle of hate.


The time allotted to me as a human is not nearly enough for me to do this.  But I must try.

At the very least, I need to eventually overcome the onus of this heightened sensitivity.  I need to resolve the inconsistencies and troubles in my mind.  I need to get faster, find the energy to keep going, and accomplish goals faster than I can come up with new ones.

I need to become acquainted with the world so I can move past the state of being dazzled by its breadth.  I need to understand better what I can do.


It's funny--I don't find what I have to say interesting anymore.  I feel strangely obligated to record certain thoughts, but upon writing them I have no desire to look at them, and I hesitate to continue.  But I feel it's important.  I'm sure I, or somebody, will one day understand it better than I do now.  Maybe I can convey this feeling with an analogy:  it's as if every moment in my cumulative experience is another bandage, another brick, another piece of constructive material.  They fit, albeit barely, into some sort of cage or cocoon or shell that too completely encloses me.  A web, constructed of objects that are completely unrelated except for the fact that they are significant in some way.  Almost like keeping my hand at the level of my eye to prevent a lasso from falling around my neck, I write some of the thoughts that I can figure out, and many that I can only grasp vaguely.  I expel them from my mind to ground my thoughts in the external world, to coerce an interaction between my internal self and my surroundings, and to remind myself that I am still viscerally alive.

My pressing fear, right now, is that my intentions never have the chance to recover me from my flaws, and that my idle words remain the greatest measure of my mettle.  I'm scared of the notion that I am simply a bitter young adult who will be crushed by a journey that is too great for a feeble person like me.

I sometimes question whether I have the drive, the stamina, the courage to pursue my dreams with the knowledge that I will likely fail.  The answer that I must continually reinvent is that I have to keep alive hope even when there's no reason to have any.  I have to put faith in my dreams, and in the power of the human spirit.

I have to define my faith and guard my hope.