Everything we perceive to know about another is only as much as we are willing to perceive to know about ourselves. As the investment of our time into others is questioned, it’s only the investor who is aware of the virtues inherent in his focus.

I’m not clear what problem I’ve been trying to solve, so don’t feel to be any closer to a solution. My notes are daunting even to me, as my opinion of my opinions has no value. They honor nothing more than myself and do little more than live out the purpose of a keyboard, whose standard life cycle is nearing an end.

What is gained, in taking the channeling of collective energy and expressing it outwardly without discrimination? While the question reeks of underlying judgment, it is really a sincere desire to understand what drives us to expression.

To write. To read. To speak. To listen.

How can we understand anything if we don’t know what drives us in the first place? How insidious is the game we play upon ourselves and others, where there is no point to our rambling, except to prove we are capable of rambling?

We do little more than find ways to live in alignment with the expressions that are least combative to our fragile psyches. Though this is sometimes an injustice to our spirit, our flesh finds reward, and our mind finds validation in groupthink.

Our habits are swaddled and nurtured by the parents of past tense and recovery leads us to rebirthing ourselves with those same parents, failing us by not ordaining the orphan way or revealing our promised futures.

We can’t delete a man’s childhood experience of living in the slums, nor can we return him to his youth to experience it differently. When he becomes a man, we selectively forget he didn’t come packaged that way. When his speech is tough to chew, we call him a jerk. We never explore the spices used in his aging or take the time to chew slowly and reveal the juice of connection.

We ask him to apologize for who he was, unaware that we are also asking him to apologize for who he is. We even pray for him to change, as if we have perfected this brief waking ritual. But we are called to move through yet another day, proof that still we are less than perfect. What is most similarly collective about our souls, is this imperfection and its flawless inclination to find misunderstanding amongst one another.

We owe to no one, the pudding demanded for their spoons because the proof is in our pop. This is the sound of conscious living as it flies upwards towards the sky, redirected past our stabbing of their self-gratification balloons.

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