Potatoes

There is somewhere along the way it seems I've found myself lost again but because I'm found elsewhere.

It's like coming out on the other side of a magical cupboard; I'm still me, but more curious, in a strange new world; maybe one I'd known before I'd known any. 

The cities of history tug, and the present says pull historical significance here. The swarming masses everyone sees and only few truly see. 

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There is a great divide, I'm not sure what side of the fence I'll drop - it's amazing to be so happy with a balancing act; it only makes sense when I consider that before I wasn't even able to stand. 

It's the hustle that keeps me alive. Nietzsche again, "The formula for my happiness: A Yes, a No, a straight line, a goal..." - Twilight of the idols, Arrows & Maxims, [paraphrasing from memory]. 

Life is neat when you can start forecasting certain behaviors in oneself and the society around. I see commercials that call to save clean water. 100% of the beef patties in fast food contain meat from over 100 cows on average. The run off directly impacts water. Yet we promote bacon and beef as the hallmark of high society and freedom. 

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Art. Oh sweet art. There is truly nothing more lovely to me. I can see why Nietzsche writes against the poets (in his poetic way) - the arts pull me to the ideal; the, 'what's possible.' They pull me away from here, but they also make here more beautiful. Philosophically I can see why that revolts him, but I'm still lost in a sea of artistic beauty everywhere around me. 

The arts are there in deepest loses, and they serve simultaneously as the expression of greatest achievements. This, I suppose, is the great joy of all human life. 

Comedy is glorious. It's one of the most enjoyable artistic affections to share with an audience. My music takes another turn; it comes yolked with hopes--my music is emotional; it's good for those moments when you're really into music, otherwise only some of the songs serve as good noise. 

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What matters, is the ability to mobilize; and that exists in such focus, that the ability to be reflective is both necessary, and remarkably hard to conjoin in execution. 

I'm not sure what I'm typing often, I just feel this compulsion. I need it. I need to write. There is so much garbage that I produce it's amazing (literary and artistic garbage along with literal garbage) - but I cherish my fail folder; a great file with the catalogue of my attempts; because if we never try and fail, I question if I'm even living.