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Writing a blog post is an interesting task.

Sometimes it’s easy!  The easiest blog posts are the ones I pull straight from my academic work, from my course notes, scraps of writing that I flesh out, polish, and hurl straight into the gaping maw of the internet.

Sometimes, it’s not always easy, but it is fun.

These are the blog posts that I love, the reasons why I blog.  I start with a purpose, set out from a definite point, and explore an issue close to my heart.  I slog through argument structure and lay out points familiar to me, set up my case to make my points, often with the intention of communicating my eternal, crushing, pervasive, all-consuming optimism to all of my readers.  I get started on these posts and I don’t stop.  I go on for two, three, four, five, six pages, paragraph after paragraph, and only give in when I either reach my point or begin repeating myself.  Or both.

I won’t deny it.  A major reason I blog is that concept of a broadcast of optimism.  I think of things that give me hope and I fling them into the abyss of the internet, in the hopes that their passing will bring a flicker into the life of a person having a worse day than I.  I loan out my optimism to others, in the hopes that they can use it to start a small business.

…that metaphor got confused really fast.

My blog posts are more likely to wax ranting if I hear something that infuriates me.  Also, ‘wax ranting’ is not proper grammar.

In that way, I suppose, these posts are a kind of catharsis.  A post which, by the way, was inspired and directed by events in my life and flung out with a purpose and intention.  It’s rather a passive-aggressive method of influencing events in the world around me.  Maybe that’s the point of a blog, though: to have your voice be heard in places where it could not be sent directly, to ricochet your opinion into the cracks and crevices of life, a way to reach out to those you can’t reach otherwise.

Or at least, that’s what I think of it as.  Through the medium of the internet I can give some vague comfort to friends having a bad day (though it never seems like enough).  I can speak out against an injustice on a global scale, or a national scale, or against a problem that I heard of someone having.  Even if the end effect is nothing, it provides the seductive feeling of having done something.  And like an internet petition, I know at least part of that is illusion—that I haven’t done much except hit a button and send something empty through an imaginary space.  But the optimistic, dorky part of me hopes that a little bit of that zany affection I hold for my friends manages to leak into every post written with them in mind.

But I hope I’m a bit more articulate than an internet petition.  And in that fact I take solace and some justification, for here on my blog one can, at least in part, get to know me, to understand what I stand for and who I am, through a prism untainted by personal relations.   For relationships and friendships, like all expectations and frames and concepts and labels, can be entrapping in the most subtle of ways, can bend perception to what we expect.

And if my blog had a point, which it doesn’t, it might be based on that, and it might run something like this:

Don’t see what you expect. See what’s there. Don’t let anyone dictate to you who you are, but rather dictate to the world what mark you’ll leave upon it.

Don’t accept obstacles, destroy them.  And don’t let people, culture, money, time, or reality itself hold you back.

You are more than anyone can ever know.  There are depths to the human mind that are never brought to light, subtleties of emotion and thought that run deep and wide beneath consciousness like the unsounded darkness of the sea.  Few will be the people to whom you could confide all that you are and all that you have thought, and even should you meet them, would you ever wish to?

So be yourself, for only you are qualified to know who that is.  Others can only offer clues.  Pursue your good, your highest end, that toward which all things strive, and reach your highest potential, for that is always within your grasp.

Some of this may sound familiar.  That’s because I tend to repeat myself a lot, in varying ways, because these are things I think of often, and things I tell to the world quite frequently.  In particular, that concept of self-knowledge is one that is dear to me, one I turn over in the hours of slumber

Those are the most intimate moments, the small hours of the morning, when you lie in the silence and the dark with only your own mind and body pressing back against the night, and it is perhaps the closest sharing that can be made to spend that time beside another, each person’s thoughts directed toward a similar vein.

I wonder about that.  Know thyself is the order of the day, but can anyone? People say that it can be done.  Great martial artists and priests, monks and spiritual leaders.  Carl Jung, at the end.  Can such a thing be possible?  Or is it a continual process, as Jung argued of integration? Can you know yourself, and if you can, can that ever be imparted to another?  What a thing that would be, to be known.  I am not sure if it would be a blessing or a curse, for at this moment in my life I feel that I am not truly known.  Facets of me are seen by all, but never the whole.  And always in those around me with growing friendship I see a new side revealed, another glitter of the truth underneath, and always is it a surprise.  What would it be like, to know another so well? Montaigne writes of it, speaks of knowing another as well as himself, two souls joined in perfect harmony.

It’s such a strange thing, this wonderful riotous clamor of existence.  Music and light and touch and sound and a thousand thousand thoughts all roaring along, coursing through space, bursting from nothing at all.  Déjà vu and those odd moments of knowing so well a person you’ve just met moments before. Hearing a sentence spoken and knowing it will come true far along the road of your life. To think of the universe in its expansive glory gives me such an odd feeling of warmth mingled with immense loneliness.

Flickers in the water, imperfect reflections of the light below the surface.

But now I’m just rambling with no end nor purpose, and I shan’t inflict this on you any longer, internet.

But there’s another facet.


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