Inspired by a lack of Inspiration

More often of late I find myself in an involuntary state of indolence. As a result of this perpetual inactivity I’ve come to recognize a few observations about many useless and irrelevant topics, one being this very state that I loathe so much, but we’ll return to that later. As the initial cacophony of thoughts assault my mind they begin to spider web down several different avenues of introspection. One strand in particular traps me in its wake and thusly, I am doomed to follow.

It is in this way, hopelessly devoid of activity, I find myself questioning. Being a creature of curiosity and logic, I can’t help but glance down the other strands of the web as I pass, tendrils of my mind being swept away, unable to maintain focus on my designated train of thought. As the various pieces of my mind meander their way back together, something of a coherent thought begins to emerge.  Visualizing the way my mind works, the manner in which I perceive my surroundings as well as my own opinions, I come to a realization; I am a pessimist. Surprisingly, this is a warm and comforting thought. Treading the tepid waters of cynicism I realize that is the brand of a true pessimist.

Do not mistake, I’m not speaking of negativity. While it is much easier for me to see and recognize negativity, I still believe my pessimism is born in logic, not skepticism. It has been my experience that a dose of optimism tends to have the side effect of naivety, the scale of which is dependent on the individual. Blissfully walking through life seeing the “bright side” of things means you’re intentionally overlooking the places the light doesn’t reach. This is a poor practice; it’s not seeing “both sides of the argument” so to speak.

As I wander further down this haughty strand I begin to study the passing tangent threads more intently.  I spend a great deal of time plucking each chord, hearing the thrum of thoughts reverberating back to me. How do people not hear some of the idiocy spewing from their mouths? What possesses a person to be such a colossal bastard to a total stranger? How does someone rationalize not tipping? Where can I get whatever hallucinogen this tool was on when he looked in the mirror and decided “yep, this looks good.”? YES, PLEASE GOD, show me more pictures of your baby/pet/food on facebook, I NEVER get tired of looking at them. Why hasn’t anyone invented a font for sarcasm? A caterwauling symphony of dissonance, majors and minors, sharps and flats, all played in the key of contempt.  As I listen to the boisterous discord of wonderings, I realize how incredibly entertained I am and I see that I have come full circle around the web and back to center. Back again to the reason this venture was begun, boredom; that abhorrent state where productivity and amusement are laid to rest.

There are few things as detestable in this world as boredom. We ever seek to avoid it yet all succumb to it far too often. We hide from it behind the guise of social interaction, the stupor of inebriation, or the monotony of employment. We stave it off and pretend it’s not there, waiting, as we watch TV, play video games, or stalk our “friends” on facebook, but it is unavoidable, and unfortunately, the birthplace of all bad ideas. It’s fascinating if you think about it. I don’t believe I’m being presumptuous when I say boredom is the only thing the whole of humanity mutually scorns, at least I can’t think of anything else at present. With that being said, amongst all the media ambiguity, reticence from our leaders, bickering with friends and neighbors, strife in the workplace, and garbage on the internet, at least we are occupied. Maybe if we took one day, shut off the broadcast towers, throttled the internet, and sat on our asses in mutual boredom we would see the next day with a new perspective, or maybe that’s just me being optimistic…

 

 

Down to Earth

The hallway is dim, lit from an unknown source by an unnatural light, sufficient to see but only just. I cast no shadows on the walls or floor, yet the light seems focused on me, the hallway disappearing into darkness ahead. The walls are pristine, painted a deep crimson with a texture resembling filigree layered beneath. Hardwood floors the color of ash guide the way into the abyss. I take a deep breath, realizing it's the first breath since I found myself here. With that, I know exactly where I am; I've been here before, countless times, and each times its different.

The unnatural light follows me as I move further down the hall. Doors begin to appear to my left and right, spaced evenly six or seven steps apart, extraordinarily nondescript, flat wood resembling the soot and ash of the floors. Searching as I pass each one for some defining characteristic, some distinctive flare to spark interest in what lay beyond. As I passed more and more doors, each identicle to the last, I realized some drew my focus, instilled a longing within me for the briefest moment. Others would ignite a flash of rage or jealousy, some terrified me beyond measure untill I was passed. Still more interesting were the doors that seemed to evade my gaze, my eyes gliding past them as if they were insubstantial, a figment. Disinterest, apathy, detachment, lassitude, passivity, one after another they came and their influence weighed on me.

I could just stop walking but even awash in this torrent of emotions, one stronger still, rooted deep within drove me on. It just so happened to be the very next door. Curiosity loomed in front of me, a perfect replica of each door before, yet nothing the same. The patterns of the grain, the subtle changes in the dark gray to light, nothing had ever seemed so interesting. Unable to resist I gripped the captivatingly ordinary doorknob and let myself in.

To describe the room beyond the door with any semblance of specificity would be impossible as it is for me alone. That and the fact that the room lacked anything resembling distinction. As I stepped inside the door I found myself not in a room, but in wonder. At first there were walls, a floor, and a ceiling because my expectaions demanded such, a door leads to a room, obviously. But to compare this to a room would be equal to comaparing the Sistine Chapel to a sketch on a napkin. The ceiling that wasn't a ceiling sometimes, but was other times, was made of both the day and nightime sky, coelescing before my eyes to become Van Gogh's Starry night, shifting into the canvas of a zeppelin floating through an unfamiliar sky with a rippling sensation of looking down at the bottom of a crystal clear lake.

The walls that were sometimes there and sometimes not changed between a myriad of images of landscape both familiar, and not. A clipper ship on an ocean wave, capsizing, the ship rolls, enveloped by the crushing water, shifts into a rolling meadow of grass covered hills billowing as would a sail in the wind, shifting into a tempestuous hurricane in the atmosphere of some cyan tinted alien planet.

The floor shifted from white sand, to clear water, to stepping stones suspended over bulbous clouds, to a nauseating birds eye view of the naked earth miles below me. The entire room constantly shifting, changing, living, with no apparent meaning or relevance in the least, a constant torrent of overwhelming sensory stimulus. The only constant was a slender stone pedestal in the center of the "room" topped by a frameless mirror seemingly suspended above the pedestal but somehow held in place. As I approached the mirror I was nervous, would my perception of myself change as often and seemingly at random as my surroundings? But when I approached I saw only myself, staring intently at the only other unchanging thing in the "room." In the reflection I saw things behind me, people, places, buildings, I turned to look behind me only to find the ash colored door frameless against an everchanging wall. When I looked back to the mirror the images in the background were still there but changing themselves. I saw entire cities, marvels of technology, art, shelves upon shelves of books, mechanical innovations, government capitals; I saw all the facets of our society in the mirror and then everything was gone.

I had awakened from my reverie, finally found after once again being lost in the labrynth of my thoughts. It happens often of late, but never with such power. Considering what I had seen, what it could have meant, it came to me. Everything we are, all that we have achieved, everything we consider solid, real, tangible, and secure are all built on a foundation of imagination. Where imagination meets ambition innovation springs, nothing we have would be possible without someones head, at some point, being in the clouds. And we consider someone being "down to earth" a good thing... Imagine that.