It seems I should be smarter than I am. I feel like I should been cresting some grand wave of wisdom any day now, but the truth of the matter is that the only wisdom I have is that I know that I don’t have much. And as far as the smart department goes, I realize just how stupid I was to believe I was smart back in my 20s because I’ve gained more smarts and they seem entirely inadequate for the purposes of survival — let alone have a leg up on the competition.
So, as I’ve gotten older, the wisdom promised is elusive and the smarts department seems to be succumbing to something more insidious and commonplace — and I spend an inordinate amount of time actively forgetting things that I thought I knew. I even begin to doubt memories at times, wonder if they were all a dream because they don’t seem nearly as important as even a few years ago. Or did I dream that as well? I spill them out here on occasion, but they seems so unbelievable at times, though I lived them (I thought). But each story I share of my “past” is one more I can purge from the system.
I’m too emotionally tired most of the time to cling to these things. I watch my daughters clinging to objects and memories like they are precious stones and I wonder: was I like that? I’m afraid I was. But now I’m not. I want to encourage to cast those burdens aside, but it’s not something you can teach.
I realize that by this part of the post, most of you have wandered off in search of more concrete fare instead of ephemeral vacillations of the village idiot. Stick to verse, you twat, you scream at the screen silently. None of this pseudo-philosophical mutterings of a walking vegetable. Other times, other times.
Tinder has little to do with the app. I had actually thought “Kindle” might have been better, but Amazon has monopolied that word and ruined it. But it is about people and meeting them and expectations when you do meet.
But the microtale hints at my newest philosophical quandary. As Mary Tyler Moore’s theme once declared, Love is all around, and I wonder if it is love that people want when they say they want love or is it something more loins-driven they want — a passion with someone else. Not really sex, but something very lower chakra-based in the ol’ kundalini. I mean, there is plenty of love to go around between family, friends, your favorite drink at Starbucks. Love is easy to find. It is a cast-away word we toss out all over the place found someplace over the heart, maybe in the head, in terms of chakras. “I love that dress, Shirley…” But is love required to have passion? Or is passion dependent upon love? Are the two mutually inclusive? Or do they work in tandem at times, but rarely dependent upon each other?
Like I said… You”ll find only philosophical nonsense here tonight.
But I actually read quite a few posts on a daily basis and whenever folks talk about falling in “love” it sounds more like falling into “passion”, if you ask me. I don’t know, I’ve prefaced this discussion with myself with the fact that I’m kind of stupid, the village idiot, and I’m not anything to write home about when it comes to being wise. It seems I only have these stupid observations that seem on par with reality, but could easily be worth their weight in horse manure.
Honestly, I don’t expect anyone to have made it this far in my rambling post, so I don’t know if it’s worth asking for your opinions (which, if you haven’t read this far, will not be forthcoming). And people tend to not really like discussing these kinds of awkward things, at least with me. Politics, easy peasy. Religion, perhaps. Encouraging a mad bastard with his weird habit of asking odd questions? Not so easy.
Unless I’m dreaming this… Well, dreams can go in weird directions. Then, who knows?