Of preaching parrots, philosophers and kings...

A post! A post! (not the wooden immoveable kind)

I feel like I haven't written anything...meaningful...on here. Maybe there's just nothing meaningful to say anymore.

Well, there isn't really, is there? It is all, ultimately, pointless. Which, I guess, *is* the point.

When nothing has true meaning, and everything is ultimately pointless, what can we draw from that?

I wonder who comes here, who reads this...I know some of my friends who pop on from time to time, mention the blog to me, which is lovely, and is really the reason I keep coming back and wanting to write again, I suppose.

Why do we write blogs? I can say 'oh yeah, I do it for my friends' but that can't be the only reason, and it can't be the reason we start. Is this my soapbox, for me to preach from, to my adoring fans? Does it seem like that to some people?

I don't really know anymore. I've never felt this lost. Or this free.

It's so hard, to write these days. Every day is hard. And it's the strangest things that make it that way... it's my own head, making it hard. Trying to keep everything meaningful and real. Because I've never felt so intensely aware of actually being alive, and yet never felt so utterly intangible. Sometimes, I feel like an echo...I'm here, you can hear me, and yet...I'm gone. Whatever was me, or what I thought was me, no longer is. Shifting distances, between you and me, me and everything else, which I know is only inside me, but I can't seem to change it. Occasionally it's like living in a glass box. And, the rest of the time, it's like being part of everybody else.

A blog is a choice, perhaps, to speak - and give people the choice to listen. If they want to. The me who writes this is not the me who you see...if that makes sense? You probably know that already. I know my mouth has that bittersweet audacity to keep up with my idealism quicker than my sense. I try to like it that way. Nothing revolutionary would ever get done if people made sense.

It's as though I died, and managed, somehow, to live. How does one live like that? When life is, literally, priceless...having both infinite value and being entirely worthless...and the difference between the two, the cost.

I guess this is, at least in part, an apology, if I have ever seemed like I was on a soapbox. Heck, I know I have sounded like that. SO many times. I never meant to do that. I guess I always wanted to be the teacher, but never understood how. I feel foolish; a philosopher who has finally realised he's actually a parrot and always has been.

Parrot or preacher, you don't have to read it. And so, I write. But now, some Shelley (oh yes, she still manages to get some poetry in from time to time).

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away."