Part of a larger work, I Used to be a Shark. Small musings.
People get rings like those of a tree (but ours are under our eyes).
Most of the times I begin something, it is with a spurt of creativity, and I want to write. It isn’t always so, such as now; but I do feel that, seeing as finding self-worth from marked progress would be a nay-sayer to the hopeful actuality, I cannot delay. People are tired. I am among them, and I sympathize; I would even if I wasn’t among them: how could someone with the wiles of today rest peacefully at the hope of tomorrow, when tomorrow is clad the same as today?
If I did not have to think, I would say that sometimes I might be happier. Still, for the times when thinking is the thing to do, the small solace it brings is worth that price… Which might be worth more? well— that is the question to answer.
A very wordy explanation might be due, but pray it might not be written where a shorter one would suffice. For my purposes, no answer would suffice. Now I am just rambling… Intelligence is ironic that it might be put to use in silence but seldom aloud. It is always said to be a shared thing, and for what it’s worth as a stupid thing, that’s odd. My discourse of course isn’t what makes something intelligent, but why we continue to slave as a collective people in this age. We are tired, and I, here among the “we,” show sympathy. I would even if I wasn’t among the “we.”
I began to think that, had not someone at some point sat down and thought of why he had decided to do what he just did, what was his reason for moving at all, much less to think about thinking of a reason, we would all arrive very differently to a conclusion of the purpose of life. I do not mean to say that people tire of purpose, regardless of what that purpose may be. I do say that they tire of the constant quest to maintain that purpose. Put simply, those things we must do that aren’t what we really are here to do, but are necessary to able to keep doing our purpose. A mild difference. I know. But from mild to miles between. Our trouble is with this maintenance. The space in between doing what matters that actually kind of does matter.
Absolutely we should not set ablaze a people as a forest. But if a tree, when cut open, displays a charred ring— I mean to say a fire that it survived in its youth or really at any point— and has grown, we might know that the non-thinkers can get through the toughest of times.
Without meaning to.
It’s the thinkers that have the trouble greatest of all.