Progress

I have been roped into new technology.

I am genuinely impressed by all advances made in this sphere, however I do remain a bit of a technophobe in the sense that embracing new things in general tends to give me the willies. Like most people, I am one who does not seem to look at change with a 'bring it on' kind of attitude. I am hesitant at first, albeit most times it is such a brief moment of hesitation it is barely noticeable. It's there though, I promise.

I find myself inspired to write something purely to try my hand at a new keyboard which sounds like a typewriter and yet seems entirely absent of any of the qualities of one. Well, all apart from the letters and the relationship between my fingers and the appearance of one of them on a likewise entirely absent paper.

Speaking of change and new prospects, taking on a road to professional discovery and a clear step towards what is shaping up to be a potential career is terrifying. I'm not inherently a responsible person and yet I'm seemingly fitting into that role quite nicely. Of course, that is, if I completely ignore all the mental anguish that is constantly present. My strong senses of pessimism, failure and self-destruction are constantly present but then, one can't assume to make a full change. One thing at a time, Mathias. Steady now.

Yes I have bought an iPad to help with my new professional image and looming tasks, most of which must be electronically presented, as the educational world progresses. I am attempting to progress with it. Find the key word in the previous sentence.

It's been a while. Good night, the interwebs.

Piece of Paper 3

The shapes and shadows form the usual faces on the walls. They're always the same. They never judge, they simply regard in silence.

The faces seem somehow different tonight, however. They are cold and unwelcoming. But don't get me wrong, they never judge, they simply regard in silence.

Mad men hear voices. I only hear my own. It offers no comfort. It only offers judgement and tormented yells.

Sometimes I wish the faces would answer me. They're ever so silent.

I am my own worst enemy yet I am also my most welcomed company. Misery loves it, or so I've heard. I've heard plenty. I've heard way too much, yet I can never hear enough.

My inner ear must be going deaf while my inner child lives on forever screaming for attention.

I wish he would just shut the fuck up.

Maybe then the faces might offer some consolation? I don't assume they enjoy the ramblings of an attention whore child.

Children hate being regarded in silence.

I'm sure there are a few children who enjoy silence. Indeed, they perpetuate it.

At first we call them well-behaved. Angels, even. Then we start to worry because we all know there are no such things as angels and demons. Not in an ethereal state, anyway.

It's like we can never really decide what we want. Do we want to worry about a silent child, or do we feel comfortable scolding a rowdy one?

I really do wish the faces made up their minds. They are becoming rather irksome, albeit silent.

Can silence be a solution? What about all that's left unsaid? Then again, what about all we wish we hadn't said?

What's the worse kind of regret? That of regretting an action of the lack of it?

Perhaps we should just be content with the faces. Maybe they too have regrets.

Do they regret their silence? Or do they regret the fact that their silent regard has been driving me mad since I was a child?

I hate the faces. I wish they were alive so I could wish death upon them.

Ramble on a scrap of paper. Part 2

Everyone writes about love for the sake of writing about it. Love tends to be a subject which inspires some sort of reaction. Whether the reaction includes flushed cheeks or a groan of cynical rejection is arbitrary.

Artists - of whose group I do not wish to be included in - feed off attention. If one is to assume that we are all artistic, then this attention-seeking is also to be attributed to every single one of us, no?

If so then what about the quiet ones? If good guys always finish last, could it be that they genuinely don't give a fuck?

This is without assuming that an artist can never be an introvert, or rather that an artist does not require love.

I believe I have just found a paradox within my rambling.

If an artist does it for attention and approval, which in turn feeds and clothes him, then how can one explain introverted artists?

I believe the answer lies somewhere within the dichotomy of the artist as a normal person, and the person communicating via their chosen medium of expression.

These two distinct personalities can always make AND break anybody simultaneously.

Think of all the drug abuse and inanities that artists are known for throughout history.

The personality of the artist could be trying to take over from the introverted personality which the person exhibited before he found his craft.

Now the person is entirely unhappy and the only way to reconcile the two is to try to numb the feeling of the gaping metaphoric wound caused by the rift.

When someone tells me about wanting to be some sort of artist, I have two distinct reactions which tend to fight to get out at the same time.

1) "That's great! Follow your heart and see where it leads you!"

2) "Run."

I figure those are my two - or rather, two of my - personalities. On one hand I want the person to success. Who knows, maybe the next Hendrix is just around the corner.

The other reaction comes from my years of struggle for minuscule success and even this marginal victory is negligible.

Bottom line, art is work. Love is pain. Work and pain are all we have to look forward to is we are to have marginal success.

It's worth it.

The Lucky

The first to be picked, yet the last to be smoked.

It is lucky because it is initially spared the fire.

In the end it is lucky because after seeing all the others burn, it doesn't want to be left behind.

Perhaps it is lucky because it is the final cigarette I will smoke. Until the next one.

Perhaps it will be the one to ultimately lead to my lucky breath.

In the end, it is lucky for the brand. Once it finishes, I have to buy another packet.

Thus the cycle returns to its starting point.





[I have decided to start posting even the random rambling writings I occasionally produce and keep to myself. I have plenty of those, you see?]