Jacques in Arden

Feeling sentimental.

Thinking about the past and that old idealistic Dan who wanted desperately to create something, thinking even lately about an older Dan, the religious Dan who believed in something. Thinking about a time that was littered with somethings and someones.

Where is my great creation? Still inside my head, or perhaps worse, perhaps already carelessly bastardized to meet a deadline.

Where is my invisible means of support? Nonexistant, replaced by a half dozen imperfect, self-centered caretakers.

What do I have? What have I gained, by losing all that?

Truth? A noble sense of Rightness?

This is no flattery: these are counsellors…

Ideas, concepts, principles used to be everything, people used to be more than the events and times that now accompany them. I had emotions, important emotions that colored everything. They were wonderful; I hope, Dear Reader, that you can understand that.

Words used to mean so much. I save a few, the usual ones, and try to store meaning in them until some vague unpleasant day should force them out of me, but diction cheapens over time, like everything else. The restrictions I place on my vocabulary are suspectible to the same tragic attrition as everything else I see.

Once, I wouldn't have blogged this at all. There are still things I won't blog, and for that I'm grateful, I suppose.

But every meme, every morpheme will be pimped out, sooner or later, for attention or profit.

It's the evil of banality. Everything has gotten so banal, or, rather, it always was…

I made a world for myself that wasn't so cheap (it took a dozen notebooks but I did it) and I've long since thrown all of it away. I've discovered since that the real world is a hedonistic, haphazard, ugly place, unless you work very very hard at it.

I guess I miss the days when everything seemed possible. Forgive the midnight sentimentalist.