Observations of Life

Specifically today, I'm going to be talking about observations I've made in my life recently, observations that have started an alarming shift in both my entire cognitive process, and by extension, my personality, work ethic, and goals.

 Anybody who knows me is probably painstakingly aware that for the majority of my life, I have lived with depressed and anxiety problems that have affected me to a much greater extent than I have seen these problems affect others.  On top of that, I've always been against medicating myself for these issues, for I feel that chemically altering my mood would create an ingenuine representation of my personality, thoughts, and opinions.  I have relied upon natural supplements at times to curb the worst of the problems, but all in all, I've just sat around feeling depressed.

I don't recommend doing this, by the way.


My sophomore year of high school, I started seriously considering the rudementary existentialist questions:  What is the point of life?  How should I live it?  What's so great about life anyway?  Etc.  I had, of course, considered these questions before, but never before in such a serious manner.  In previous years my answer was something more of "I don't need a reason, so I'm just going to have fun," but that answer became less and less satisfying as I matured, until my dissatisfaction with life peaked my senior year.

Upon entering my first year at LCC, I felt as though I had failed myself. Lansing Community College is pretty much a haven for dead-beats and dropouts who have been forced to reconsider their lackidaisical lifestyles due to the looming economic crysis, and considering how much effort and stress I placed on my academics all through middle and high school, LCC was about the last place I wanted to end up.  Ever.

And let me tell you, when you suffer from depression, dissappointment is a killer.

However, by an odd twist of circumstance, LCC lead me to my passion for philosophy, which in itself brought me some peace of mind -- for my life-plan was the center of my concern my senior year -- and by another odd twist of circumstance, I met a man named Josh Routhier who helped me realize that I'd been approaching my problems from entirely the wrong angle.  For anyone who doesn't know, Josh is a Zen Buddhist, and though I didn't consider our first few confrontations the pleasantest, I slowly grew to esteem and respect his wisdom and compassion as much as my narcissistic tendencies would allow.

Through our various dialogs, Josh introduced me to a process of self-examination I honestly believe is essential for the healthy functioning of any creature with self-reflexive awareness.  Through meditation and self-study, I've begun identifying and hopefully correcting many of the misconceptions that had lead me astray through my life in the first place.  Of course, the answers to the existential questions that had been burning into my consciousness have continued to elude me; but while exploring these new questions of consciousness, I think I've come a little closer to answering them.  Of course, the answers aren't even close to my original expectations;  however, I think that the answers I'm coming to are much more fulfilling than those I was originally seeking anyway.

Within the past month, I've become increasingly engaged in self-studying and both passive and active meditation, and I've come to a couple rudimentary conclusions:

• First, life (in a philosophical definition -- not a biologists') and consciousness are one in the same.  Life is defined by the existence of consciousness, on whatever level it might exist;  lack of life is the lack of consciousness.
• Consciousness is the combination of an innate awareness, which is ever present, and an active decisiveness, which fades in and out of awareness.

Of course, these conclusions are, as I said, rudimentary, and I'll probably add and subtract from them later;  however, for now, I think that's a good explanation.  I will probably continue to build upon these ideas in the future, but for now, I need to finish some homework.

Shades of Fiction

I speak a world in black and white.
It's how I communicate.

But it's not how I see.
See, I see a world of gray.
But there are no words for gray.

So I stick to my blacks and whites,
Despite my growth into gray,
And hope the world understands
What I understand
And What I speak,
But I doubt.

The world, I think, still sees in black and white.

And I pity them.
Yes, I pity them.

It rained again today,
Like yesterday.
Not that you would care --
I'm sure you have much more important things to think about --
But apparently, I don't.
I've been staring out the window
Since the rain started
Last week.

There's something entrancing about the steady downpour,
How it gathers into pools on the earth,
Which continuously grow and overflow,
And which never seem to absorb
Into the soggy ground
Or evaporate into the cold, damp air.
It's like the tears that flowed from her eyes,
How they gathered into pools on my arms.
I felt the warm liquid growing and overflowing
As I stared into the rain.

The tears stopped.
They're poisonous, you see,
And she knows this, so she stopped them.
Held the poison inside herself,
For me.

But the rain never stops.
It continues, despite my most earnest wishes,
Despite my pleadings,
Despite my prayers.
It continues,
Gathering in pools, which grow and overflow,
And never seem to absorb or evaporate
Because the ground is soggy
And the air is cold and damp.
I think that's why, at least --
Not that it matters.
I stopped caring why long ago;
Now, I just watch the rain.

I can hardly even remember when it started.
Was it really last week?
I don't think so --
It doesn't feel like it.
I... I can't remember the sun.
I can't remember its warmth
Or its color.
Did it smell?
No, I don't think so.
I can't remember where it was
Or who made it.
Was it God?
No, I don't think so.

And so I stare out the window,
Watching,
Wishing the rain would stop,
But it will never stop.
The poison, pouring, from the clouds,
And into my heart.

I hate the rain.

A soldier without a name.

In the throes of war, a soldier can't stop to let his emotions settle and sift through his story to find the facts.  He wades through waist-deep pools of politics and perjury, surrounded by the fog of fatigue and fear, and when the bullets and bombs appear out of the blanketed haze he shoots and runs and hides and prays that he'll make it out of this battle and see his family again and before he takes a breath it's over.

And his friend is dead at his feet.

We Never Saw the Rainbow

When our generation was born,
We were given a box of crayons
And sternly instructed
To create any picture
We could imagine.

So we opened the box
To gaze at its glorious colors,
But when we peered inside
The crayons were almost gone.
Broken, worn, discarded, and destroyed,
They spoke nothing to our artists' hearts
But death.

Commanded by our fathers,
Enchained by their legacies,
We gathered the fragmented pieces,
Brought together our hands,
And wrote a note:

It told the end of our lives.

The fragile and fragmented pieces
Cramped and collapsed
Under weight of
Our heavy hearts and hands,
Which slowly succumbed to
Disease and decay --
As we watched our colors diminish
And die.

But we pressed on.

Starving, sweating, and crying,
We wrote until our end was written,
And collapsed
On bloody hands and broken knees.
And we cried to God --
That his next child might heed
Our epitaph.