the mind can pull attention away from what’s happening in front of us. never mind the gorgeous sunset; i have work to do. shun the sunshine; i have to get ready for tonight. it seems the unknown, unpredictable, and random future somehow attracts more investments than this moment now.
what do you get out of engaging with your place in time? maybe a restful break from strenuous planning and expectation. or it could provide much-needed attentiveness to a priority unfolding in front of your feet. the point being, there are advantages to leaving what’s going to occur behind.
there’s a downside too, so don’t worry if you felt attacked. now a different group will feel heat through the microscope.
many mental health organizations and wellness initiatives hold strongholds in the camp of being present to notice when emotions shift or body states trade. there’s not much to argue there if the basis is to avoid guilt or shame through intensive awareness. with new varieties of sensical information storming in all windows at all hashes of the day, putting energy toward the environment around us can distance the negative cycles of self-deprecation.
inverting this spectrum, the future could also use representation. i see the distant horizon as a landscape of paradise, despite knowing it can change on a whim. visualizing a giant headlining concert or an expensive studio setup in a hypothesized basement resting underneath a cookie-cutter, architecturally modern house is a common american dream. work hard, gain skills, and climb that green ladder melting gold.
if i spent the time i dream on, perhaps, living, how much more progress would i make? continual building of character and story is a shortcut toward fulfillment. if i’m spatting about left to down, up to right, how am i supposed to grow in a forward fashion?
what’s the point of it all? staples, barely chewed, being shoved down throats night after night. decorating your room to represent a fugitive spirit on the run. the cycles ran on washers and dryers like a ragtag cloth war. old albums not yet a year old. ink stains not tattooed, but nonetheless eternal in their placement and stroke. a story told twenty ways with forty names, eighty different directors, one-hundred and sixty producers, and three-hundred and twenty actors. a message, just beyond reach, taunting readers on each page.
we rely on one another for our choices. who am i depending on to fill the gaps in my schedule?
alliances grunt a fool’s scoff. i entrance more hours on entertainment than on love. look at that, i’m an actual bachelor.
point being, the artistic passions i pursue ought to have the weight of my focus throughout each day. after all, aren’t we taught to direct more resources to what we care about?
but maybe that’s the misunderstood assumption bringing down my free will. what if the amount of work is more quality than quantity? certainly, when i do choose to make music, i’m all in. i’ll even abort if i can tell after a while that my heart isn’t in it. i treat my soul like a grocery store; the ripened continuance of development grows like a harvest.
i let loose a brainstormed future when i’m unable to live it in the present, but that’s not enough. i want to sign up for more open slots. i don’t want to be subjected to availability. i want to control it.
– D K T