Conspiracy

It's not hard to think - if one were predisposed to do so - that the world at this time of year - this time of year involving several holidays dedicated to the act of both A) eating junk food and B) spending money on consumer goods - is perversely against you. That for over two whole months, candy will be left out in dishes, adding calories to a daily count, tryptophan will be imbibed amidst endless carbs and saturated fat, and hard earned cash will be spent on things that, as already established by this hereto blog, do little to assuage the human condition of suffering. And yet, to go against these very events, holidays, gatherings, and their concurrent proliferation of consumer spending, is to be labeled an outcast, a cynic, a loner, or even worse. To wit, this seems to suggest that a world that goes against you; frothing with calories and unhealthy consumption, both literally and metaphorically, is the preferred order that has been established by the multitude of collectivism that we call society. That this renders these times appreciably destitute is merely another facet of the human condition.

Clothe Me

Given that the present author grew up in a household in which the clothing of said author was pre-ordained by one parental unit, and that this meant that the author could never truly acquire and wear clothes that the author truly wanted, it goes without saying that, given independence, the author found an entirely new world opened up to them in terms of purchasing, and wearing, selected clothing. And while the job of the present author requires button down shirt, business khakis, and belts, and not, say, skinny jeans, or trendy t-shirts, the limited freedom that the weekend offers is something that should be taken full advantage of. Given, however, that the present author lives with his sister, and does not want to seem extreme in choices of clothing and jewelry, the end result of clothing choices is such that the author dresses still rather conservatively, not too unlike he did as a kid.

Mind Killer

It has been said, by an author whose works are rather famous and prolific in number of sales, that fear is the mind-killer. That, while undoubtedly true, also seems to suggest that fear is really the only mind-killer, when in reality, there are multiple mind-killers of varying degrees of efficacy and chronology. Boredom, for instance, is a mind-killer. Stress is a mind-killer. Anxiety is a mind-killer. And this doesn't even get into the less metaphysical realm; smoking, for instance, is a mind-killer.

What this is to suggest, ultimately, is that the world is full of things that can damage one's thought process, ability to reason, and feelings of comfort. That we have so adamantly worked to alleviate these problems over time, with little to no success, explains much about people's desire for means of escapism.

Making Money Matter

Dear reader, it has come to the present author's attention, not for the first time, that this author's dream of living in a large city whose metropolis engages and changes on a second-to-second basis, is a relative impossibility given the current author's resources. Lacking any sort of college degree, a resume that contains more than fast food and administrative experience, and any marketable skills, the present author can simply not afford the starting, bare minimum rents of 700-800 that occupy cities like Miami, New Orleans, and Chicago. Given that the present author also expects that new employment will come with a pay cut, these numbers become even harder to play with. To wit, there still remains some hope that perhaps several people could be wrangled into splitting some 3 bedroom apparatus in which the rent is 1200-1400 a year, allowing it to be split in thirds and made more manageable, but that also creates an incredibly precarious situation if one or both other residents were to move out. It also, even when divided in thirds, represents a significant rise in housing costs from where the present author is now.

That the dream of living in a big city, much like the dream of being a writer, is entirely a false hope and impossibility, is not lost on the present author. That this is all together depressing seems merely a fact of life.

Voiceless

As a kid, the only time you're told to be quiet is when you're in the presence of others, being rude, yammering on, but your curiosity and opinions are cute or a good sign of intellectual adventuring.

Growing up isn't any harder than being young, but there are facets of every stage of life that are challenging.

Perhaps the hardest thing about growing up is learning your voice, for the most part, doesn't matter. You can shout into the void, into the web, onto paper, into a co-worker's ear, but for the most part, the words and streams of consciousness will live and die amidst a very small number of people, and most times, it will live and die only amongst yourself. Your voice, your story, may go untold. A tragedy, if such a thing could be called as much, for the over 7 billion people on this planet are unique like a fingerprint, each with their own upbringing and values and knowledge and background.

You may call it cynical but I like to think of it as being realistic. My voice, for instance, confined to anonymous online accounts and family, a history of failed attempts of short stories and a god-forsaken blog with perhaps no regular visitors. I know that I really have nothing valuable to add to the void, nothing painstakingly original and human or touching or challenging, standing on the shoulders of those before and yet still failing to stand taller than them.

But I'll continue to throw my voice into the void, for what other choice is there? At least, then, I can say I tried, and here one day will lie my body, and I will have been hopelessly alone, but a stubborn asshole all the same. Insignificant, another mind lost to time and space, barreling towards the heat death of the universe, all from the nothingness of death.