I know nothing, Jon Snow.

I just had a little moment, looking back at this blog, when I noticed something amiss.  My little avatar displayed a brief description about me, and in whatever state of mind at the outset of this journal, I wrote:

"Human-being fated to an insignificant life on the planet Earth just like everyone else :)"

I didn't realize how false this statement was at the time.  Funny enough, even through its trivialities and relatively dull moments (but even boredom can be useful), life has been full of wonder and learning and all sorts of amazing things that really aren't captured by that statement.  I suppose I assumed that my existence on planet Earth wasn't worth much in comparison to others, but that is totally not the case.  Sure, the Earth may not miss me when I leave, but in this moment we all really matter in one way or another.  Well, we literally matter.  We are matter.  We matter until we no longer matter.  It's unbelievable to think how seemingly small actions in our lives can lead to interesting results, all found within our fleshy containers.  We can shape our reality, external and internal, the landscape and the infinite space within your mind, to seemingly no end.  I don't know why I would expect mediocrity out of myself.  Perhaps that flippant little statement resembled part of me that fears any success, partly because we can be so judgmental of personal achievement and the skewed ways we all measure it.  When I take a moment to forget all of the externalities, forgetting to please everyone and just be decent whenever possible, I realize that I'm not too shabby.  I have some nice things to say, and I generally want to help anyone I come in contact with.  I have regrets, but they are powerful lessons.  The trick is to keep them active in my imagination.

Initially I only wanted to address my hiatus from writing for the last year.  I've been paralyzed.  In some ways I still am.  I've wavered back and forth between accepting my passive role in this life and alternately trying to produce something more conveyable than all of the scatter-brained conversations I take part in.  I've operated under the belief that writing necessitates some sort of cohesion, but simultaneously I've read some fascinating literature that really embraces the chaos of thought.  The paralysis also stems from the desire to spit it all out right the first time.  To do it all in one take.  But that's also a silly notion; I'm constantly deleting, creating, and rearranging all of the things I say and believe on a day-to-day basis.

And I continue to explore the hesitation.  My exploration doesn't take me very far physically, but in meeting new people, talking about relationships, literature, idea(l)s, and simply making meaningful interactions, I'm reaching inside myself one way or another.  This process isn't neatly punctuated by chapters as much as I might try to describe it as such.  It's easy to think that we can close one and start another simply when we move to a new place or finish one job or go to school.  Yes, those embarkations may not be easy, but they are surely driven by a multitude of things that don't stop or start discretely.  It's a culmination of all experience, and it's hard or even futile to identify the direct causes.  But there is beauty is in the transitions, in framing what led you to the next place, and deciding when to let go and fade into the next moment.  A continuum of awesomeness.  The patterns can be interesting and worth communicating—hopefully full of didactic moments for you and those around you.  But I would be wary to rely on those patterns in any predictive capacity.  Part of your life's purpose might be to shatter all of those notions.  You might need to accept that constancy and comfort can easily be taken away.  It's about expecting nothing, and being grateful for everything.

I am grateful for silence.  I am grateful for those moments of loneliness that allow me to appreciate all of my friends.  I am grateful for my insecurities that make me laugh at myself, the moments of humility and the realization that my needs are often wants—and desires are not so urgent that they need immediate treatment.  I am grateful for patience and how it teaches me to stop and savor my experiences.