(I've decided to add a preamble to the following. This was not written as my last blog entry ever on earth. I have a particular journal that it was time to put down and move on. There was just a lot of emotional baggage and to carry around the book was like to keep that baggage with me. So as to move on, in life and in journals, I had to end it early instead of writing through all of the pages. I'm okay with that. So, the empty pages that are mentioned are literal empty pages that can also be taken as descriptive comparisons to all the little nothings in life that add up. It is my unabashed ending to a long and clouded tale, journey, time of life. It's title is quite clearly what it is, my last journal entry in that journal, many pieces of which are being held close to the vest for now until some lifestyle occurances begin happening. Thank you and I exeunt.)
So, it comes down to this, the inevitable end. There'll be empty pages to follow that may haunt me for years, the need for them all to be filled eating at my mind, but here must be an end and here it is. I have nothing glamorous to say, no great words to write. The most profound thing my dementedly brilliant mind can write is this: Such is Life.
Yes, it boils down to something as simple and boring as that. Where's the climax? Where's the spectacular? Where's the fantastic? Well, it's everywhere, but it's nowhere to be grasped all at once. I've tried all the tricks, I've broken all the rules and I've gained nothing but broken hearts and sad experiences.
Did I learn? Yes, volumes. A hundred thousand could be written about where I've been, both physically and mentally. It boils down quite nicely into: Such is Life.
So then, what does one do what that information? Clearly it would be a tragedy not to share all this wisdomwith the world, but then, perhaps it would be a greater tragedy to give it to the world. Eyes that can't see won't want to - that is one thing for sure. The news will fall on deaf ears and pass like air.
I once thought I was put on earth to write the Great American Novel. I don't need to now because I have lived it. I'll let someone else write the story of my life. I've had enough surviving it thus far and I'm certain that the most fantastical aspects are lost in the fog.
It's funny the things you can find in the fog, but it's sadder still when you lose that something in a fog. I have lived in cloudy days and made a storm of my life. I have left wreckage in my wake that no man can gather again. Tempest-tossed emotions, actions,a dn reactions, if you will, that I never bothered to look ahead at what damage may come.
Such is life and such are the consequences of life. My only wisdon I'll part with is that life is to be expiremented with. It is to be lived fully and with grandeur, but don't fall into folly and live in delusions that only appear to have the joy of life. I'll wake everyday to the cost of making that mistake.
BY EVERY RIGHT, I should not even be alive to write this. I've been so busy trying to die and calling it life that I've forgotten what it is to be alive. I've tempted fate, I've mocked her pixie-dust, and yet she still sprinkles her goodness upon me. Such is my life.
So, it comes down to this, the inevitable end with empty page to follow...empty pages to be filled with your story. For mine is done...