Devotion

How much devotion is too much devotion? Is there even such a thing as "too much"? Is there a difference between devotion and clinginess? These are but some of the questions that people think about but hardly ever want to talk about, civilly at least.

For me, devotion is healthy until you have renounced your friends, and your dignity and self-respect all for something that might only have been false hope from the start. You were probably too blind to see this until after the fact. Or post-facto as some say. Of course, you only realize this in retrospect because that's how it is: one only learns things during and after, not before. Like I just said. Circularly.

Now, devotion can go towards a wide range of things. Hobbies and people seem to be the two that arrest the most devotion. Not that it's necessarily bad... until you go too far. When you become too devoted to a person, you're either clingy or obsessed, and if you take THAT too far they'll break up with you or slap you with a restraining order. Either way, if you show too much of anything, you're considered creepy.

Devotion is something that I've given almost liberally, now that I actually think about it. Perhaps for misguided reasons or because other reasons that are, at present, unknown to me. One thing is for certain: I fucked up. How? Because I learned that there is such a thing as too much devotion and that giving too much to something else is a bad move. Especially when you believe yourself to be self-less by not demanding anything in return. That should only prove devotion and not a misguided sense of altruism. Asking for something or even demanding it isn't the end of the world, it just shows that in order to continue with any form of devotion there must be validation. Devotion without validation is a sucker's game. When that "something else" vanishes, you're left with a hole to fill, if you're lucky. If you're unlucky, you're left with a vacuum, or the stereotypical but inaccurate image of a black hole. Because it sucks everything up only to destroy.

Of course, one can recover from this particular loss but the time it takes to gather your marbles is time that could have been put to better use doing anything else like improving the self or the environment (generally speaking). This is probably why one should be careful and not be so goddamn devoted to one thing that everything else falters and fails because of it. Two way streets, give and take, giving without receiving is a sucker's game. Receiving without giving is for parasites.

Devotion.

Never Quite the Same

While reading my older entries (for ideas, mainly). It came to my attention that I've made many spelling errors and typographical errors and, perhaps more importantly, that I've never actually written about heartbreak. I might have hinted at it or mentioned it in some very vague way but I've never actually sat down and collected enough thoughts about it to form a substantial post. This is probably because I'm not comfortable with writing about it, which I'll try to explain in the following paragraph.

Heartbreak isn't really something one can write about without baring a portion of themselves. Nor is it something one can write about without sounding selfish, to some degree, because you would take the path that applies most to you. It's different for everyone (which can be said of most, if not all, things). This uniqueness prevents a solid, all-encompassing definition from existing and therefore from applying to everyone correctly. There's really no "one size fits all" explanation for something as profound as heartbreak. It isn't something one can easily write about either because it really doesn't need an explanation as it is something that everyone has already experienced at some point or another, or at the very least can extrapolate based on the word alone. What more can actually be said about it? It's a very painful experience and it plants the seeds for growth.

So, with a sense of hesitation overwhelmed by a desire to write... it's time to generalize while trying not to sound like a complete ass.

Heartbreak. Vile. Crushing. Agonizing. Defeat. These are some of the many words used to describe that experience that everyone will go through at some point. Like love, there are different types of it. The most common (or the one written about the most) relates to relationship (in which two people exclusively associate with each other emotionally and sexually) and, of course that pesky notion of romance. Or more easily written: romantic relationships.

Heartbreak comes forth in many stages that range in magnitude but perhaps the most painful (or again: the one that has been written about the most) comes when a relationship ends. With this particular brand of heartbreak, one should think of the concept of an earthquake. It often takes you by surprise and what seems to go on for a while doesn't actually last very long though it can be quite destructive and there really isn't much you can do other than endure and pick up the pieces and move on. Of course, what that should probably really mean is that the relationship ending is the earthquake and the pain that follows (often attributed as heartbreak) is the aftershock and the picking up of broken and disheveled pieces of the whatever you want to call it.

Do I actually know what the hell I'm talking about? Yes but like I said before, it's a tricky subject to write about because you have to be careful to not sound biased or too personal. After all, I'm trying to sound as neutral and blank as possible without being too much of a generalizing, condescending ass. But it obviously isn't working because I'm talking in circles and had to write and explanation, and admit that I can't actually write.

There is one truth in all this though: things are never quite the same after it.

That level of devotion that once bound you both began to peter out. Despite your best efforts, there was really nothing to be done to save anything. And that's where the real tragedy lies: the inability to do anything about a sinking ship. Other than let the cold waters engulf you slowly as the bright blue sky of yesterday becomes blurred and distorted by the cold waters of misery and loneliness. And you sink further and further, that blue sky become darker and darker and distant.

But you get sick of that feeling of death where you feel your whole world is actually shit and that there's nothing to be done other than sink and feel worthless. Then it clicks: this sucks, and you become tired of having your self get dragged down and filled with misery, so you straighten yourself up and begin the difficult swim back to the surface. Back to the blue skies. With each stroke, you feel some sort of pain and a feeling of wanting to give up and just sink down and wallow in misery. But you keep going because this shit sucks. Finally, your head reaches the surface and breathes in for the first time in what seems to be an eternity and you marvel at that blue sky. Always been there but different somehow. The clouds of yesteryear don't seem to be there, or there seem to be different clouds. Perhaps not the gray ones that haunted you but big white and fluffy, made brighter by a beaming sun. Hope? And as you marvel at the sky, you keep trying to stay afloat.

Perhaps not an earthquake.

The Wacky Mishaps of Professor Mole Vision

Liked I mentioned in the other post, I was reading through my earlier entries and saw many spelling errors. Among them were: missing letters, letters in the wrong places, and sometimes, missing words. I really can't explain why or how, other than the fact that I was probably being careless. I try to be somewhat meticulous with my writing... sometimes.

The way it's usually worked is that with academic writing, I've done one draft and turned it with no revisions and received a good grade. Up until I started college, then the professors began demanding multiple drafts though I really didn't want to write any more for them as I was satisfied with the grade I received (usually a high mark). I sound like an arrogant jerk, don't I? I'm simply stating the truth: I've done what I consider to be a minimal effort and received a damn good mark. Of course, it could be that I'm so hyper-critical of my own abilities that I perceive my abilities to be lesser than what they may in fact be. But I really have no way of knowing these things as of right now because I am still unable to view things without a horrible bias of sorts. A bias against myself, despite the fact that I love myself.

But getting back to the topic at hand...

My vision sucks, I have to wear glasses. But it's not that bad that I can't recognize keys and characters on a keyboard; therefore, the only logical explanation for any of this is that I was being careless. Or, more in keeping with the title of this post: Professor Mole Vision can be rather careless when it comes to writing. How? He'll keep writing and get so lost in his writing that he'll not notice the mistakes in spelling he's made.

Of course, sometimes, I'll write something rather outlandish that'll still make sense. What? Using "quantum of solace" in an academic essay not at all related to James Bond but Coleridge.

Yeah.

Posledniy Geroy

I was reading some of my older posts and in the middle of noticing spelling errors, I thought about the past (as I am wont to do, as are you from time to time). Only this time, I didn't dissolve into a love-sick baboon or was rapt with a desire to change the past. This time, I thought about my current and former heroes.

I still remember my former heroes. I'm sure you remember yours as well because it's no surprise that everyone has at one point or another in the earlier segment of their lives looked up to someone, and not necessarily because it was a matter of height. You looked up to someone because you thought there was something special and inspirational about them that made you want to change something of yourself or do something different. This being a result of their behavior or being or skills. There was some quality, perhaps, that you wanted want to emulate. Whatever the reason was, that person was your hero. Sometimes, you even wanted to be them.

Of course, there are basically two types of heroes. Super and otherwise.

The ones who fall under super tend to be called superhero and have their own particular dichotomies and such BUT they tend to be more fictional and extraordinary than the heroes you'd find in real life. Trying to emulate the impossibility presented in fiction is a terrible idea: radioactive spider bites are deadly. But it's the ideas behind and beyond the spider bite that really set the stage for one's development. Ideas like responsibility, selflessness, a sense of humor, and courage, among other things. Yes, these heroes fought crime and placed themselves in damn-near impossible scenarios dangers but they were to be looked up to for being courageous, smart, selfless etc.

Heroes that exist outside the confines of the pages of a book or television screen include people who are also self-less and courageous and who genuinely care about what they do and the people they encounter. Firefighters and cops are heroes. Yes, cops are heroes despite what cynical ideas and attitude you may adopted over the years.

But getting back to the scattered topic at hand: heroes. They exist and will continue to die out in everyone's mind again and again until the end of time. For me, most of my heroes are gone. Or that title, no longer applies as it did before. I used to have several heroes in different fields but as time went on, that status faded away.

The admiration I held become more about what they could do rather than who they were. It's not cynical to say that heroes will let you down, or you'll make them let you down because you will grow up and change your mind. Or because they might reveal themselves to be something other than what you thought they were. It's realistic. But also inaccurate because you let yourself down and you want to pin the blame on someone other than yourself. As such, you pin the blame on something you believe to be infallible but by then you've become jaded and you just see that hero as nothing more than another person.

It sucks when it happens because you've invested a lot of time and effort into admiring or even emulating only to have yourself destroy yourself through destroying your heroes.

But this isn't always the case. Sometimes, you do just outgrow your heroes. They fade away into a corner of your mind that you rarely visit anymore. You become so engrossed in what's in front of you and what is coming up that you forget to take time to appreciate what built you up / what helped you grow up. You forgot to be the person you wanted to be and ultimately just become some sort of drone that was shaped by others rather than your own goals and dreams and such.

How badly your younger self would weep if it knew how far you had fallen.

Most of my heroes have been replaced with people whose skills I admire. I might still have a few heroes but very few of them wear spandex or even fight crime.

Echo

Late in the murky evenings
and at night with its cold pale moon

When the shadows of silence have settled in
and that ceaseless din
of the busy day
has
finally
died
down

I am alone
with my thoughts.

Oh
the ranges they range

How they grin
and snarl
and bite
and tear
and shred

And gnaw away at a fragment
of myself, surrounded by emptiness

There's nobody there
There isn't anyone here

No guiding light
no guiding hand
no lantern in the dark
to lead the way

And I remember that it's always been like this
And a cold warmth suffuses the self
Sealing the lips of a thousand screaming shrieks and wails
That never truly stop.

What's left in the end
is not a bloody pulp
or pile of broken bones and hopes

but a steady
ringing
lingering

echo

Another Story for Another Time

"Another story for another time" is a recurring phrase found around here. I usually use it as a red herring, but more often than not I use it because I don't feel like writing about whatever it is that preceded that phrase.

Kind of feels like being let down, doesn't it? Of course, it also builds interest of some sort so it can't be all bad. I write, you read, it all works out. And it works out even better because someday, I'll actually write about those stories and anecdotes I vaguely hint at and allude to.

I figure I should because one motto I live by is, "eh eventually." and its variations "it'll get it done... eventually." and like I used to tell someone, "I'll get it done. It'll take me a while but I'll get it done." or something like that. So don't fret if you come across yet another "another story for another time." and you feel misled and disappointed: I'll get to it, eventually.

A Reflection with Gray Hair Trying to Show Teeth

I used to take public transportation everywhere. When I say everywhere, I mean pretty much everywhere: school, friends', business, leisure, ladies, nowhere. I still take public transportation these days because it is how its and that's the way things are right now. I should point out that I've relied less heavily on it lately on account of my latest material acquisition: a bicycle, which I ride everywhere... for the most part. I won't go into further detail with that right now but you get what I mean. And by that I also mean that my bicycle isn't the main focus of this post. It's actually what I would see on the bus or subway train: life.

Broken down and still walking at differing paces I see them: older people. Older people have begun to become a reflection of some sort. A vision of what lies ahead for me. I'm not very fond of this, not because I'm a shallow asshole who also happens to very vain and narcissistic and all that crap (though there are a few people who would say that I am, indeed, all those things). But because it doesn't paint an accurate picture of me or them; it doesn't take into consideration the different circumstances and experiences that we have lived, it makes a vast and sweeping generalization about youth and age as a whole. I've already been told I'm going to resemble my father when I get older (or have been told I already resemble him). Both of which really suck because it hurts when the boy who doesn't like his father, is told he is becoming more and more like his father. But it does make me wonder (about other people): how were they like when they were younger? What did they look like? What aspirations did they have? It's mostly questions that I have and my imagination to fill the gaps.

For the most part.

The bags bearing down on their shoulders, children wearing out the already vacant and expressionless faces... these things give way to certain information. Or at the very least hints at information. They're miserable, or they seem to be.

That's probably why I don't like being told that I'm going to end up like them: misery. Feeling like shit because I didn't accomplish my goals and am now stuck in a downward spiral allowing everything to collapse and tear itself to pieces because I just don't seem to give a fuck anymore.

No, that can't be me. I can't let the mirror show me the broken-down reflection of someone else's agony. Almost like breathing it comes, a cry for help masked in a bark to sheathe the ceaseless anguish that comes with breathing and living. That's another reason I hate that sweeping generalization: I refuse to accept the notion that I will be tied down by a bunch of kids that I hate and shout at them to do this and that only to have them run around wearing me ragged all the time.

In a nutshell: I don't like being frequently told that I'm going to age badly and still be strapped to the sidewalk burdened by screaming miniature me's.

Wouldn't you feel the same way, too? If all anyone did was tell you that you were going to be trapped in a hole, skewered by rusty daggers at all hours of the day, wouldn't you want to lash out and be a little scornful of such notions?

It's only natural, I suppose.