Malleable

Sitting down and telling yourself to write rarely works as well as you would will it to. With that in mind, I have very intelligently sat down and forced myself to begin writing. It isn't going well. There is a certain level of reliability in personal change which as hard to avoid as it is to see - that is to say, you can neither see it nor avoid it until it has already taken place. Now before you jump to conclusions, do not assume this inevitable evolution is necessarily slow or gradual, but rather immaculately imperceptible because of your being you. Don't get down on yourself, a lot of us are us. The biggest issue in this slow erosion of the character you are to reveal the one you are becoming is the tendency of everyone else to keep the pieces which are invariably no longer you in their minds. Actually, that's not quite the biggest issue. The biggest issue is when you are surrounded by chips and memories of who you were and dislike the direction you are moving. For, unfortunately, self loathing accomplishes nothing. Martyrdom only moves others.

The question has always been about purpose. Obviously. Religion, philosophy, math. All attempt to answer where we came from and then, more importantly, why. This is not news. And whether or not this is a riddle with a solution or just the greatest trick that the collective mind has played on itself to keep a drive for life is really rather irrelevant. For better or worse, purpose is something we give ourselves. For better.

Soliloquy

The morning was perfect. And that is not to say ideal, which people too often mistake as being interchangeable and which could be no less, as ideals are often inadequate in actual experience. An ideal morning would have been sunny and warm, which this one was not - it was instead a perpetual grey, the kind you only get after a long night of long rain and there remain a few air borne tears, and cold enough where a jacket is needed to stave off the chill, but should remain open to avoid the heat. Within the weather were the simple surroundings of this mourning morning. Seated on an empty bench in an empty park with empty thoughts; there is no greater place of solitude where it is so easy to be found. In this perfect morning, those vacancies were to be filled.

"They're late. But, alas, it is to be expected." She wondered how long he would be forced into loneliness in a place where anyone so compelled could find him. She had not spoken with them in so long that their absence did not strike her as something new and could not cause any unease, but rather just disappointment in those well acquainted feelings still not fading. From far off, she could hear the sound of someone approaching and wondered if this streak of unfamiliarity with these people she knew but too well would soon come to an end. It was not worth the risk. She picked up her heavy frame which had been so hard to move all morning. The fear in continued seclusion when there was no reason over came the need for it to end. And it over came her.