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They’re here and I cannot rid myself of their foul presence.  It is as if I have stepped into a pit of quicksand; the more I struggle the tighter they encapsulate me in a veil of inactivity.  Try as I might I cannot pull myself out.  I realize this yet I am powerless to take action.  I am powerless because it is not The Blues I fight, but their master Motivation which I cannot conquer.  It is a foul beast, with power beyond recognition.  One might call it abstract, intangible, unreal.  I call it true, physical, ever-present.  I call it Blah.

That’s right, for all that I want to manipulate the essential words with which we communicate no word, or set of words, however beautiful and flexible, can truly encompass everything that I feel more than Blah.  Yet I know you can relate; Blah is a universal, unavoidable, completely destructive fiend which tempts us all.  Not a second goes by that someone in the world is not stricken by its power.  Need I explain it?  No, for if you want to understand you need look only inside yourself.

I write this because I know I cannot win.  Blah is a despicable monster worthy of vanquish but we humans have not yet the power to release ourselves from its spiritual entrapment.  Yet if we cannot conquer its totality cannot we at least fight against its reign?  For all my life I have envisioned myself as a man of will, as a man of character, as a man of determination.  When life throws at me challenges I will rise to overcome, no matter the difficulty facing me.  Yet college has taught me the meaning of failure, for failure is not a lack of success but a signal for restructure.  One does not fail because he cannot succeed.  On the contrary, one fails precisely because he can succeed, for if he could not succeed by what standard could he measure failure?  To fail is not but to learn what is wrong, and thus move closer to what is right.

Tonight I look deep within myself and ask the question that haunts my waking moments.  What do I want from myself?  It is not a question of goals or even motives, but deeper still.  Who am I?  I delve to the root of all humanity to seek that which shall define me as who I am.  Whatever I may choose means not but a decision, for something this fundamental cannot be determined by a mere rational choice.  However, a choice is a new beginning and that beginning is now.  I say this knowing full well tomorrow may find me nowhere nearer to finding myself, but is that not the purpose of life but to seek oneself, however relentlessly one may choose, and yet never obtain true unity?  Man is but a house divided.

As I sit here on my makeshift bed contemplating my inner turmoil I know not what the future holds.  I expect that tomorrow will be much like today, as will the day after.  I cannot uniformly alter my behavior on a whim.  I want to be intelligent, and by the grace of, well by the grace of something, I am.  Yet intelligence speaks not to application, nor does it even whisper to wisdom.  A man may enjoy an intellect of a thousand scholars, but he will be bested by a child of little conscience if he be not alive.

I doubt whether those few who read this will have any sense of sanity or cohesion whatsoever, and I cannot blame them for I myself cannot make sense of these words.  Just as only Blah can explain my motivation so too can only this insensible rambling ménage à trois of directionless thoughts explain my mind.  Bring from it what you will, for it means universally nothing and singularly everything.

I believe my writing here demonstrates I qualify under intellect and need only to conquer the Blah.  In fact, I know it.  I may not be able to recite all the facts of Martin Sheen’s President Barlett, divulging on everything from wheat crops to minuscule south pacific countries on a whim, but I could hold my own against such fictional adversaries in a battle of sheer ability.  But that is not that which is in question, for intellect is the least of my concerns.  I sit here without work, without schedule, without purpose and whittle away playing old computer games while my precious, always beating heart draws ever nearer to death.  Yes, death.  It is not a kindly thought but one which we all know to be true.  In the eyes of a child it seems like a millennium, in the eyes of a the great Methuselah not but a day.  Are these the moments I want on my record?  Even now I know not what else I may fit on, for it is as if I am a forager living off the land.  If my luck persists I will live a full life and fill it with all that I want, but if nature so calls I may leave my tape with nothing but rubbish.

Tomorrow I set out anew.  One fact is for certain: if but nothing else I will have left upon my tape this one little piece of wisdom.  It may be a speck upon the horizon for the universe, yet on my tape it is tangible.  It is tangible because it is real, and it is forever.  The world will never be the same from this moment, for I will never be the same.  The West Wing in all its witty glory shall have changed the world, as all such miniscule things will do when they have even the slightest effect on an individual.

I digress.  It is a fact of nature that when one becomes philosophical he must use his words without any great intention.  For, as we can perceive through any mere skimming of my blog, the human mind works in anything but logical order.  We are not logical, so why assume we are so.  Kick those rationality economists, and ask them if assuming rationality is rational.

Peace Out.

P.S.   I would just like to remind those who would comment on the severe lack of structure and organization that these are the words of the mind; of the soul.  They need no order.  If I was a religious man I would say they have divine order.  Since I am not, I declare them in the order of the soul.

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