So much flash and glamour peppers me everyday, through the internet and around the city, that my interior life has become a floating mat of debris choking out the soulish organism within. It’s little wonder my thoughts circulate in repetitive undulations leading me nowhere. Intentionality is lost. Purpose is clouded over. Vision is blanketed in darkness, and I hardly know how to love. My ego craves attention, validation; it searches for all the small satisfactions feverishly licked up by desires that ground me in nothing. What can I stand on when all I have is information running through my mind and desires flowing in chaotic swarms through my body, weaving their crude fantasies? It takes time I don’t seem to possess to unravel the tangled lot.
Meditation is a practice. Time out for contemplation is lost. And I’ve frequently wondered why I always end up back in the same place as before, unprepared for the next wave of life, stunned by its untimely salvos, wishing something would finally break me open into epiphany. Well, I’ve lost the practice; usually only engaging in meditative thought up to the point I feel better about myself, while missing the chance to dive deeper into an extended process. Depth always sold itself as a foregone conclusion of life but I’m finding how easily it hides away, leaving me on the surface grasping for connection, top to roots. Doesn’t seem worth the bother half the time, though.
Alas, the thin margin between practice and complacency yields an order of magnitude greater of quality of life. The lazy, drone-minded thing to do is to allow myself to get saturated with everything the outside world offers by way of entertainment. Get swept up and away. Just carry on. The effort to fight it hardly seems worth the struggle. That’s lack of vision.
Even writing, though, feels pointless. As long as I think things through enough to get me over the next hump, what’s the point in keeping up with all the energy-intensive intentionality? The end result is the same. I die. The world goes on in endless pulses of life, death, violence, winning, and losing. Depth gets buried under the alluvial flow of circumstances. Survival doesn’t yield much space for depth. Connection. That’s the key point that would put all these feelings into alignment. At least I would be centered and believing I had embarked on something grand. I can’t let the darkness win. The fact I’m here, alive and well despite the dwarfing expanse of spacetime engulfing, says something of the trend which brought me here.