Thursday, December 16, 2004

nightengale

I've been thinking about Nightengale. He needs to write a book, instead of spending all his thoughts by rattling them off to me, who will never remember, and to whom they will never fully make sense again, after he's done spilling them. But it seems he will never do what he says he will do; it seems he will never actually put the effort in to accomplish what he proudly proclaims he is here to do. He seems resigned to this. He seems obsessed with formulating excuses why he has so much to give and yet does nothing. That seems to be his decided lot in life, lost upstairs with his maddening collection, and he doesn't tire of assuring you that this is his role, his luck, his jinx. He seems a perfect example of what to prevent by any means necessary of happening to your mind, your life, your strength and sense of self... He seems a perfect reflection of every seed of doubt I've ever experienced in my own mind, in the light of having been allowed to spread and flourish thirty years, and provide excuses and reasons to do otherwise, and turn from a seed into the ground itself. It is so cruel, how easy it is to let one's purpose slip by and be ignored all life long. Or perhaps it is so cruel how harshly we put it down, and sublimate it with other joys, and prefer to think of ourselves as one type of king than another; to invent kingdoms to rule that are far smaller and more plastic than the ones we were meant for: while the real kingdom fades in the wake of our denial... It is hard to lay the blame on any one person, or on every person who suffers the loss of purpose, and falters into an early destruction, and floats like reckage on the waters of existence until the end... I find it hard to be very accusatory towards anyone... But hearing Nightengale talk and then hearing him plan, and then seeing him ignore the whole thing and return to bed and wait for death, it is hard to simply ignore the seemingly intentional process of deterioration... Hard not to react somehow, whether it be to cringe or try to remember what he said; while the clamor in my own mind protests, that I can't do his job for him... I don't believe in damnation, but I believe in a purpose that we are "here" to fullfill... I'm not sure if I believe in being able to miss that purpose; but Nightengale's example seems to speak otherwise.

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