My existential dilemma

Like many people, I often (perhaps too often) find myself clawing against the age-old existential crisis: why am I here? and what is it all for? Usually I come up the same answer we all do: "Hey! Get your ass out of bed and get to work! We've got bills to pay! kids to feed! (and hopefully) dreams to achieve!"

But every-once in a while I can't escape this dangerous sensation that maybe life is just a distraction from the fact that we're already dead and maybe it's about time we gave ourselves a little show.

I'm not trying to play Hamlet or anything here, I'm just saying that sometimes it feels like every single moment can boil down to an awfully redundant choice between 'life' or 'death'.  And it just doesn't seem right that in every single instance where I care about who I am, I'm obliged to choose "life".  I guess sometimes I just find  myself tempted by one of those forbidden "what ifs?"

Like, what if the person I'd always told myself I wanted be was the person I am right now?  And maybe this moment is, in fact, all that there really is, or ever has been for that matter.  And maybe I should just take a second, one tiny little second, and actually try to appreciate everything this single moment has to offer me.

And then maybe all my hopes and dreams can go on without me while I stay here and just for this one infinitesimal fraction of a second imagine that, "you know what? maybe its ok for existence to just be this one single instance of completeness." Maybe this moment is the exact moment I was created for. Doesn't it just make such perfect sense?  Have you ever experienced anything more beautiful than the moment you're in right now? Just take a peak: Behold the entire universe!! Right here!! Right now!! This. This. THIS! THIS!!!!!!!

Nothing more please. I'm quite satisfied here. Yes, that's it for me. I'd like to get off the train now. I believe this is my stop. Hello? Existence? Who's running this thing?

Oh.. right.. its Me. 

And I'm still here.

And those are my old hopes and dreams. Just over there.

And between us stand this paralyzing question

"what if?"

I have this this feeling that I'm on the precipitous of finally finding my rhythm.  Every day for the last few weeks I've been making the right steps in the right directions. I can't help this feeling that my patterns are about to coalescence.  I don't konw.  I don't have a lot of proof.  but I'm pretty excited, and I'm pretty sure that's part one of the symptoms I should be looking for..

There's this guy named Chuck Lorre.You may have heard of him as some big Hollywood hotshot writer producer.  I first heard of him when he had his big tiff with  Charlie Sheen. Apparently he worked on Rosanne Grace under fire and Dharma and Greg and Two and a half Men and Big Bang Theory. and some other shit that never caught my radar.  Anyway, none of his shows are really all that that good.  I enjoyed Big bang theory because of the Sheldon character and the techy jokes, but other than that the material is pretty dry and feels massed produced (Can't blame the guys how the hell can one write a masterpiece a week with the writing talent in this country.

Any my recent sister-in-law turned me on to Big Bang theory and I''ve been wasting way too much time on  it. and I recently realized that for a split second there is displayed what I have now learned to be a Chuck Lorre Vanity card.  Where he displays some written anecdote or word of wisdom, often poetical in nature,.  Some of them are are quite good.  The one I read today read's hence:

:‎"They weren't not in love. It's just that the subject, as such, never really came up. It kind of loomed over them like a blissfully stupid cloud. The love cloud.

Guaranteed to rain on your brain, 'til you're moanin' with seratonin.

Maybe what was happening was that they were in love with the idea of being in love. But that's still love, right? Instead of loving each other, they loved an idea. An aspiration. A wish. The other person was more or less of an afterthought. Somewhat expendable, or at the very least, interchangeable.

I love that you make me feel like I'm in love. You, on the other hand, I can take or leave.
Of course, it was just a matter of time before the truth of each other, the hard fact of their unique selfness, their one-of-a-kind snow-flakiness, became unavoidable.

I may be a broken toy, but you are a Chinese crib factory that uses lead paint.
Saying goodbye in these circumstances is always very awkward.

"I just had your car towed." 

"That's okay, those Flip videos I 
said I erased are now on the internet

Others are just rubbish.  Some so bad he apparently can't even bear to allow them to be published and instead default to this one:

CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #111*

This is the official "I have nothing worth writing about" vanity card. It will run whenever I have nothing worth writing about. Don't be surprised to see it quite a bit. From now on, when our schedule requires me to deliver a new card and I'm empty, I'll simply say, "Run one eleven." A check of the one hundred and ten cards I've already written will quickly demonstrate that I should have written this card a long time ago. Why didn't I? Vanity. I had become vain about my vanity cards. I was determined to write a new one each week because, well... I'm just that kind of guy. But I'm older and wiser now. I know when I have nothing to say. And that knowledge is freedom. Freedom from the constant need to win your approval. And more importantly, freedom from the obsessive and relentless need to end each vanity card on a joke. The Electoral College.*

Anyway this guy has inspired me.  If I can write anything that will be read by one half of the people that think Charlie Sheen is Awesome, I will consider myself a success.

Little boy, heed these words: the world is an unscrupulous place.

 Beauty and treachery are two sides of the same coin. Within you has been planted a thirst never meant to be quenched.  If you are to be happy, you must learn to ignore it.  If you are to be great, you must learn to foster and channel it.

I will say that neither is right or wrong.  Do not bother with such meaningless dichotomies until you know how to use them.  They serve only as tools to control the weak and will lead you neither to greatness nor happiness.

I will say that one is more rewarding than the other.  Happiness may always be found by those whom greatness outpaces. But greatness is an impatient guide, and the further you stray from its path the harder it becomes to follow.

Salacious Vixen

It starts with a look.

So brief and subtle that at first you'd miss it if not paying close enough attention.

But she knows you're paying attention.

You catch it and experience split second paralysis. The definite but immeasurable moment of utter bewilderment that occurs just before you realize you've missed a step.

And just as you're about to panic, it disappears. The eyes you find yourself staring into like a baboon are now innocently questioning what you saw.  Doubt sets in.

You don't know it, but more than anything you want that look to be real. You can't acknowledge it because you're not man enough to bear the possible disappointment.

Just as you tuck it safely out of consciousness, it returns. More familiar now, but just as mistakable. This time its giggling.

And thus begins the game.

You know from the start that you are outmatched. This one already has more experience than you'll ever know.  This game is little more than cat and captured mouse.  But you can't not play. That's part of the game too. Only the dead refuse to play.

She keeps you alive with her touch. Soft. Inviting. Exhilarating. Playful. Innocent. Not so innocent. She knows how to keep you moving.

And you move. You move in ways you didn't know you could move. You move desperately, impulsively, maintaining only enough reserve to amuse her. But it doesn't matter, just so long as you feel that touch.

It doesn't matter that you know. That the territory you're exploring has been mapped out by countless others. That the course you are on is one of unending pain and ruin. That the game has been rigged.

The touch means too much. It's worth it.

That's what you keep telling yourself.  It might not be true, but you have to make it bearable somehow.  You didn't really have a choice.  Only the dead can say no to the touch.

Moving on.

Pulsing Beating rhythmic radar checking Moment. Check. Moment. Check. Moment. Check. Consciousness off. Consciousness on. Consciousness off. Time doesn't matter, what matters is Breathe Breathe Breathe

Alright, I'm not sure what happened. I guess I stopped being miserable for a while.  Anyway I'm back to it now and as gleeful as ever.

All I've ever wanted was the whole world and to eat it too.  Now I'm going to have to settle for good health and a better attitude. Where does turmoil end and adventure begin? Turmoil. That's funny.

I'm walking along a lightly trodden path when the thought strikes me: I'm creating a rut. Sure, now its only a trail of trampled weeds, but my trip along it enforces it's existence and my return will doubly so.  This path I might I justify because I deem it the best route to my desired destination, but shouldn't I at least be conscious of what I'm doing?  There are so many possible routes with so many possible destinations if I'm not careful I may get too comfortable with this one and miss out on something better or more appropriate.

 Just the possibility of becoming comfortable is a scary thought. What if I come upon some incredible opportunity but have grown so accustomed to my well-worn routine that I am unable to capitalize upon it?  Or I find it easier to convince myself of it's non-value than to dare and blaze an unfamiliar trail? I can't get comfortable here. Not yet.  I'm not ready to miss out on something else yet.