Zero to Nemo (part one)

Thank you. Your words and your friendship has given me the wherewithal to go ahead and publish this particular wordy ramble I have had stored away in my digital documents.

This will be the first of 4 parts, the rest I will schedule for each to be published after 24 hours has passed. Giant stepping stones to skip across the surface of this great abyss. For we once were titans, and we will be again.

Introduction (24 june 2019)

I don’t know how to start these things. I never know how I do anything that I actually end up doing, although I know that I tend to end up doing a good job of it. I’m not trying to be modest, I’m not really trying to be anything. I am, however, trying to just exist. That sounds so pretentious and full of crap, though. I frustrate myself because I feel like I present myself to be some bumbling fool, or as if I am just so whimsical that magic just happens around me without me even realizing it. It’s as pathetic as the “hot girl who doesn’t know she’s hot” trope.

Why is it that whatever I try to do, the opposite result usually comes to fruition? The more effort I apply to something, the more spectacular is it’s falling apart. The less effort I apply to something, the more beautiful and magnificent it comes together. I must always try to “not try” and carefully balance this divide of intense focus and nonchalance. I must be dismissive in the stuff that I care about, and focus intently on the stuff that bears no interest to me. Thus, people often misinterpret my intentions and motivations.

This morning my daughter asked me what interesting new things I had learned about tarot or astrology. I didn’t know what to tell her. I don’t know anything really, least of all what could be considered interesting or new to her. Saying this makes me want to punch myself in the face. OF COURSE, I KNOW STUFF! I just don’t know the relevance of any of it. I tried to explain it to her using the dictionary, or Wikipedia, as an analogy for this frustrating state of being.

A dictionary is a useful vestibule of knowledge, it contains the definitions and meanings of all the words! However, without someone to read it, or know what it is they’re searching for inside of it, what use is it? I can’t answer questions without context. When something can be interpreted a many number of ways, certain parameters need to be established before any meaningful response can be ascertained. I can provide you with answers, but you must provide me with a question. I can help you find meaning, but I need to know what is meaningful to you.

This frustrates my husband because he sees it as me trying to find a loophole in everything, that I will never give up information on anything unless it is explicitly stated. It doesn’t matter how much I try to reassure him that I’m not doing that, he can’t see it from my point of view because he can only see what he sees before him. Just like you, dear reader. You can only see what words I lay before you here on the page, but without me mentioning your name, how do you know I really am speaking to you at all? As of right this second, this very moment, I am writing to no one. I am writing my thoughts out on the page with the assumption that they will be read one day. I am speaking to the faceless other that is not me. And for right now, right this moment, you (whose eyes glance over my markings upon this once [and no longer] blank page) assume that position. You take on that role of the other, just as my words speaking out to you from wherever I am, giving voice to the other side of “you.”

It’s the eternal divide between you and me. You and I. Where you and I diverge, doomed to feel ennui for what may seem like eternity.

I assume that everyone else is like me, that they think not what I think, but that they think LIKE I think. Because I feel lonely, I assume others feel lonely too. Because I feel lost and listless, I assume others feel the same things too. I don’t think I’m better or worse than anyone else in my life – but I know I am both better and worse at doing things when compared to other people.

I am told that this is selfish, to always be thinking about myself and the way in which things relate to me. It is conceit that places me in the centre of my own universe. I didn’t used to think that was conceited, however to consider and contemplate all things in their relation to myself is in itself self-centred. This is the nature of existence that one must keep silent, for to communicate this notion to others will skew their view of you. To give voice to this essence, the qualia of the ego in existence, others will mistake your intention and misinterpret your philosophical position as you believing you are the centre of the universe.

Can you relate to what I am saying? Does this resonate with you? Or are you like the others who have misconstrued my message, mistakenly thinking that either you or I believe ourselves to be the centre of the universe?

We, dear reader, are not the centre of anything. You, me, us, them, it, him, her, they, all, none, one, some, each, every, any – hey! Whosoever and whatsoever pre-conceivable position that could comprehensibly be postulated – none of it could truly encompass the enormity of the essence to which I am attempting to ascribe.

All I know is what is before me in the moment. All that matters is that I try to be the best that I can be. All I do (as I have always done) is try to make the most out of the circumstances I find myself with the materials I am given. In spite of it all, I want it to be made known that I have tried at all. Not to glorify only myself, but also to honour the ones I have been so (un)fortunate to know in all my many walks through life.

Specifically, the people who have shaped and formed me into the person I am today. The very real and human individuals I have had the divine pleasure of knowing. Especially, and most fundamentally, I am who I am because of the love of my life. The anchor to my starship, the core of my strength, wed in body and soul, I am his bride.

I am a herald of my own making. I am no puppet. I know my place and the perils it brings forth. As a noisy figurehead, a (falling) star in the making, I am the avatar manifestation of the true test of virtue. I stand before you, between what you think and what you know. Overcome me and I return to the feet of the one I adore and with whom I am home.

It appears that my narrative voice escalated rather suddenly in this introduction. If only I could ask it what am I to write for each chapter, and what am I writing about? Or what will any of what I write be about?

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