electronaut
[the incessant babbling of a future mental patient]
I met myself. I must say, I was not impressed.
This was not the me that I know, or think I know. This was another me, one that rears his head when least expected, to plant the seeds of negativity in the minds of those around me, while I am left to deal with the rampant crop of idiocy that blooms soon after. In others, he inspires doubt, disbelief and uncertainty towards me, my integrity, my ideals and my resolve. Through action, through words, he commands a presence of a nature that is the polar opposite of that which I strive to be. Ignorance and apathy are his playthings, lies become his weapons, and cruelty his entertainment. He is contradiction. He is violent anger and withdrawn depression. He exists as my favorite enemy, a nemesis to be sure.
Would it be considered suicide for me to kill this veritable doppelganger?
["eccentric and pretentious..."]
At the time of this writing, I know that I don’t necessarily know what it is that I think I know.
At the time of this writing, there are still forces in the universe I do not understand. Their whims, their almost imperceptible moods continue to influence my environment in ways I cannot comprehend.
At the time of this writing, I await that one person who, by her nature, can bring an extra dimension of meaning to my life, without fear of letting me know when I’m totally full of crap.
This is a letter to you. Yes, you, with the slack-jawed look on your face. You, who are probably, at this very moment, as you read these words, scratching your ass. This is for you.
This is not the letter, however, but merely a precursor, if you will; a mere message of preparation for the letter which follows. You will know when the letter begins, I am fairly certain of that.
This will be no ordinary letter, mind you. Not like the letter from grandma, or the kind you get when your wife leaves you, or a notice of past due amount from your credit card company, or even the officious type of letter you received a couple of weeks ago telling you that you don’t qualify for federal student aid because you totally forgot to sign up for selective service when you were eighteen, even though you swear you remember doing it. No, this is quite a different kind of letter. You have never been the recipient of this kind of letter. I know this because I haven’t written it to you until now. It is quite possible, in fact, that after I write it, you may still not be such a recipient, even after you’ve recieved the damned thing. I’m not sure, as I haven’t decided yet.
[Take one tablet twice daily with food.]
Delusion: Take a pill. It seems, more and more, that we assign to the category of “disease” a number of conditions which seem to me to exist not so much as illnesses, but instead are misconstrued as such. This sort of misguided perception threatens to slow, or even completely halt, our progress as a species.
How long can we get away with inventing mental conditions in order to excuse our dumb behavior patterns?
Seclusion: I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. If one were to search diligently enough, one might find entire towns full of children who have been diagnosed with a condition which is aptly named “attention deficit disorder.” While I do not deny the existence of this condition, I do highly doubt that the sheer number of cases diagnosed are, in fact, justifiable.
[brought to you by the National Association of We're Just Asking For It...]
Is everybody ready? It’s almost time to play that silly game we involve ourselves in every four years or so. Keep in mind that while I do not consider myself an expert on politics, I do consider myself a relative master of pattern recognition.
Delusion: We the people. Yep, it’s nearly that time again, when the two party system engages in battle via television, radio and what is loosely termed “public debate.” This election, at least the choices seem a bit more colorful, if you’ll excuse the unintended pun. Personally, I find it rather exciting to see an African American candidate, with potential for female vice presidential candidates in the mix. This, at the very least, gives the impression of progress, in a manner of speaking. One must ask oneself, however, will this really amount to any measurable change?
Seems to me that no matter what color you happen to be, or what religious background you may have, or what sexual organs you possess, that if you make it far enough to actually run for president, you probably share many of the corruptible traits that any presidential candidate possessed. I imagine that they all have the same taskmasters, anyway.
[...this has been a message from the emergency broadcast system.]
It is important to be aware of those times when we are in error. It is on those occasions that our true character can be tested. One’s response to such a realization, or whether the realization occurs at all, can speak volumes about a person’s dedication to that which can be deemed “true.”
I have, over the years, developed a particular fondness for finding myself in the wrong, and admitting it. There are times, I will concede, that I still find it difficult to do so. However, as this kind of circumstance tends to be one of our best learning mechanisms, the pride I hold for my ability to admit such a fault typically outweighs the difficulties associated with doing just that.
["Love is a chance combination of elements. Any one thing can keep it from igniting: a mood, a glance, a remark. But if we could define love, if we could predict it, it would probably lose some of its power."]
The great poets are dead or gone, the final remnants of their genius left to whip about in the wind as shreds of paper dance in the path of a fast moving object. Rennaissance is replaced with revolution. The more romantic notions of this world have all but disappeared, unrecognizable to younger generations, presented in works of art as historic frames of mind. Irrepressible, pure emotions are haphazardly given the slightest considerations in a modern world of more competitvely-colored overtones.
Understanding and reason, and the basis for these things, reside in the mind’s ability to be aware of its self, to contemplate itself, its purpose, its reason for subsisting in such an indifferent universe. Emotion, the intrusive neighbor, dwells several floors down, haplessly barging in on the mind in order to complicate its existence and, at the same time, impose a certain amount of meaning. It yearns to simultaneously satisfy and confuse the mind’s sense of purpose.
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