Saturday, December 15, 2007

I, like most trucking troubadours my age, wallow in existential agony 99% of the time. At any given moment we're either angry, depressed, worried, confused, apathetic, isolated, or achy--usually all at once. It's hard on a body, I say.

I have empathy for food inhalers, sleepwalkers, TV zombies, suicide rockers, cutter queens, bank drainers, adrenaline junkies, porn pilgrims, whiskey drifters, runaway brides, et cetera.

Everyone needs escape.

But then there are those who appear to fit in well on Planet Earth. The pure ones. The tranquil ones. The selfless ones. The steadfast ones. The independent ones. The eternal ones. Ones, ones, ones, ones . . .

Ones & zeros. Bums & heroes. Nuns & Neros. Scums & Cheerios.

The world operates on a spectrum system; it's neither black & white NOR shades of gray. There is right and wrong, and there is truth. But it's every color, every combination, every emotion, every texture. It's all-encompassing, messy, & wild. It's up for discussion. It smells like roast beef & diesel. It's something I'll probably regret writing about tomorrow morning.

Welcome to the world-as-I-feel-it: Sandland. A place where blogging is meditation sans destination. A coyote cave littered with skunk bones. My home away from home when I'm already home.


Anonymous said...

Are the ones that appear to fit in with the world truly happy? Or just more content with the status quo? Perhaps they are not the creative thinkers. Perhaps they are followers, or are running from their own thoughts.

Consider a life without seeking the truth, searching for happiness, and wanting more of an understanding into the way the world works. By chance somehow hoping to affect it in a positive way.

Would this truly be a fulfilling existence? Or are the ones who appear uneasy, angry. depressed, etc. that much closer to bliss.

Can you know the good, if you don't know the bad?

sweet t said...

let not young souls be smothered out before
they do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
it is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,
its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.

not that they starve, but that they starve so dreamlessly;
not that they sow, but that they seldom reap;
not that they serve, but have no gods to serve;
not that they die, but that they die like sheep.

hey sandy- your journal entry made me think of this poem (one of my favorites, by vachel lindsay.) i hope you're doing well- have a merry christmas.