Lost in the throes in anticlimatic

What defines us?

Today was full of rain, and even ten hours in I couldn’t bring myself to put down my tools and call it a day. I’m at a point I think, understandably so, where I am reevaluating my definitions- my sense of meaning. Between the wiper blades of my truck I watched people walk their dogs, sweep their porches, carve paths down the main street sidewalk. What defines them? A role can define people I think; an image. The day to day effort and focus at being something we are not. It’s enough meaning to get one through to dinner at least. What of those who don’t care to be something we are not (not yet, at least)? What defines us then except that which we are, yet that takes no effort and therefore brings no meaning.

I remember having wellsprings of meaning that spanned acres. I remember having an image to project, and an ego too fragile to survive without it. Life was beautiful then. Beautiful, perhaps, because it was dangerous. Now it seems beauty and danger have wed and hopped a plane to an eternal honeymoon somewhere far behind me. The wellsprings have run dry. So I lose myself in the throes of production. There at least there is some degree of meaning, but as my father found out it only lasts while it lasts. My earlier wellsprings ran eternal. It wasn’t they that ran dry, but myself. I left them and lost my way back. The world has grown in- thick and twisted- and whole trees now grow in middle of the path I departed on.

And so I seek new wellsprings. Something compatible with the increasingly ugly world in which we are living; compatible with the entropic nature of the duration of my existence. Something real. Something not me- outside of myself- but something I could yet be a part of, even just as an observer.