As an old folk song sings to my ears, I hear remembrances from the passing of a time unsolved. We wait too long and look too often into others for answers unknown to all but us. I relax my elongated crooked spine, ready to uncover a word or two about the world inside me. Perfection is only a discretion.
To write pretentiously is nourishing to the soul and fingers. However, can you imagine how annoying a person would be if they only spoke that way? “The evening brings upon a mood of unjust solitude within the den of my caricature.” Ok, buddy…
There are writers, such as Jonathan Franzen and Thomas Pynchon, who write novels in that pretentious way. Some of them are quite good, so I’ve been told. Just because you write something complicated does not mean you are smarter than anyone. It might suggest you are insecure of your intelligence and get off on making others feel unavailable to your ideas.
Speaking of opinions, it has been a while since I’ve written much of a update.
To quote Gene Wilder on the Tonight Show with Conan O’Brian before he died, “I’m happiest I’ve ever been in my life.”
My entire American life has been based on the notion of working hard to never be good enough. Oh, and mixed in with symbolic delusional pyschosis.
Yes, yes, it is true, I’ve become a normal rational individual. I no longer am building bigger realities about every detail into something beyond belief.
It’s weird to be back on planet earth (4 months now), and who knows how many of my invisible line laws were based in truth or on self-deception.
I think one of the hardest part of coming back from the war with myself is seeing others still fighting, lost within themselves.
I’m learning that what I do is less important than how and why I do it. If I’m a janitor, I’d better be the best damned janitor to support my love of the opera.
This isn’t an exclamation, it is a explanation that I’m so glad I found myself; the kid I once knew. Now, let’s try and grow.
Ben Bonkoske 