You know... I used to dedicate time every Thanksgiving to consciously taking the time to contemplate the things for which I was thankful. Y'know? Like, I would spend that specific holiday focusing genuine gratitude on the things I was thankful to have. Listing them down. Etching little grooves of appreciation in my mind.
I realized, yesterday, that this is akin to the people who make New Years Resolutions once a year on New Years.
It's weak. I shouldn't be exercising a philosophy of overarching gratitude for things I have only once a year. And enshrining that practice, to spend an hour or so, once a year, writing about all those things?
It relegates it to a .... high school love letter. A series of thank you notes to the universe. And while it's better than nothing, ultimately it's just something that I'm consciously-subconsciously shelving and sanctioning.
So. What the hell is the point?
Upon examination, I can see echoes of this ideology permeate my life. Silently championing an outlook of "not have". I've done it a great deal my whole life. And frankly, I'm getting sick to the fucking back teeth of it.
I've been revisiting Meditations recently, thanks to some prompting. It's been years since I've applied myself to it. And it reads so very differently now, than it did.... god. Well over 10 years ago?
And I'm embarrassed that I missed so much up til now.
....
I haven't written freeform journal entries in here in a long time.
A long time.
It feels strange. Like an old suit I used to wear, and now I have to readjust to the angles of stitching, and the shape of the fabric. I'm not even really 100% certain why I started partitioning my writing. Probably because of wandering eyes.
But I'm past the halfway point of my life. And I'm just too old to give a fuck any more.
This place feels like my personal infirmary. Where I can come to rest. Self-diagnose. Or just be sick with horrific abandon.
And maybe that's an uncharacteristically reckless way of perceiving it. Exacerbated by my recent feelings of inadequacy and loss and boredom... and all that garbage. Maybe it's not a responsible thing to do, what with online scandals breaking every other day.
But, whatever. Prudence versus singular living.
I feel like I've been having epiphanies hard and fast these past few months. And they're all sort of congealing into something larger. Some personal paradigm shift, queuing up like some clock of characteristics deep inside the value-system responsible part of my brain.
Hm.
Well. Anyway.
It doesn't matter. This is just a sketchbook.
I don't need to partition every fucking thing. I don't need to be so meticulous for no reason.
That's just life. Just incompetently smeared ink and jagged edges on which to snag your elbows.
And the therapy of entombing my thoughts and feeling in amber before uploading them in a paragraph of abstract images.... I suspect it's not doing as much for my self-understanding as I would like.
We'll see, I guess.
12:18 a.m. - 2017-11-25
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