de.term.inism

There is sublime solace in multi-dimensionality. I cannot begin to fathom how I have digressed from a fully-functioning social being of a few years back, into the anxious recluse that I am now. For a protracted period, I have used my soliloquy as a ploy to thwart those who would, out of self-preservation and exclusivity, deem me unfit for their palate. This, of course, was dictated by prevalent insecurities, borne from anxieties seeded by pain. However superfluous this methodology I utilize, it had its advantages. It kept those, whose superficial intentions are legible to the asinine, at bay; remaining perplexed in the confounding conundrum of my own design.

It was never my purpose to alienate, as my own consciousness is witness to the devastation that this could instill. What the aspired effect was, and still is, is to welcome and allow those whose grasp with reality are congruent with mine, not as a grandstanding self-serving condescension to prove that intellect is a precursor to empathy, but as an invitation to those whose orientations and value systems overlap in the venn diagram of my own, cognizant of the same slant and perceptive of the concealed hypothesis. It is not Boolean, as one would casually presume, but a hyperbola whose tangents need to be defined, and meaning and value comes from this definition.

For a while I considered revising the vogue of my language, if only to elicit and allure a favorable audience and a more interactive environment in this space, but superseding realized that it would be dishonest and retrograde, to assume a voice dissonant with mine; if only to gain readership under false pretense. You see, I inhabit a world replete with details, often innocuous and overwhelming, and these details form the prima facie that mold the opinion of those around me. The minutiae define me. One may call this arrogance, or outright self-righteousness but the choice to remain what is essentially me is the fulcrum of what I am as a person, as a writer, and as a mind.

It would appear counter-intuitive, ironic perhaps, for a language laden with causality and deduction, to be devoid of logic, or for a structure founded on precision to be so verbose to the point of vanity, even avarice. But many of what I expound on digress from reason, and are birthed mostly from emotion. The pathos being the pathology that metastasizes my conception protocol, that feeling brings forth fervor, and vocabulary is an incidental advantage. Though the patois I employ seem schizophrenic at moments, it is necessary so I can pursue the essential cranial calisthenics. Whether writing about the mundane or speculating the absurd, contemplating the intangibles or expressing the unspoken, the written word is the medium I choose to expound on to validate the veracity of my consuming consciousness, and a silent subculture that remains nameless.

Hiding beneath my layers, I find somber comfort. I discovered that by weaving my thoughts into the semblances of a tapestry, I become one with them, complicated and multi-dimensional. You see, I never am one for straightforwardness. Maybe in this regard, I fail to bridge that divide that could result in sociopetal outcomes. Because my difficult nature precludes that to understand me entails more than comprehending the obvious. That to know me, is to unravel me. Into filaments of truth latent underneath the anarchy of imagery.

I do not wish to confuse, but my own disorder seems to dictate the very method of my madness. That creating a world hermetic and pristine in my mind here, or wherever it moves me to, I can progress without process, evolve without volition, and share without shame.

It is this longing to expound, assimilate and comprehend that maneuvers my hypergraphia of the highfalutin. The diversity of the dialectic is a resultant of an inherent need, nay desire, to make sense of this existence, to delineate order in the pervasive disarray that envelops us all. Interestingly, for the most part, recognizing and conceiving order or a semblance of it was never the objective. To presume that we hold any chance of enforcing pure logic over existence is beyond human capacity and perseverance. But, ironic as it is, the action of making sense of it, contemplation; the phenotype of this inner struggle, is comforting immensely beyond what oblivion and apathy could offer.

It is not in defense of the self, nor a deliberately florid and nuanced explanation, that was the impetus to write this. It was birthed from the inevitability of process. To understand, for me, is to write, and only by placing my thoughts into the structure of language can I process those thoughts, that the action of literature elevates the mind. It is said that literature, whether prose or poetry, is innately theological, and I deem this rightfully so. To weave language into meaning requires an astral breadth of cognition and clarity, a momentary glimpse into the divine translated by an earth-bound psyche.

Original image from here.