One Fell Swoop: The Story of Our Lives

In a strangely ironic twist (which will make more sense to all of you later in the post, or possibly not), this entry was born out of ideas I forgot. I still can't remember them. Yes, I'm writing from some phantasmic state of mind that allows me to write things that aren't real (or able to remembered, or both. Or neither. I really don't know). No, that phantasmic state isn't otherwise known as intoxication, although I'm sure that wouldn't help matters. It's more or less a general memory lapse. I struggle with this quite regularly, actually. As a matter of fact, you're all probably familiar with these struggles of mine - they're the direct root of my incessantly long thoughts that seem to go no where but closer to the bottom of the page (much like this). Just bear with me, I'm getting there. Trust me, I am. Really.

Now that I've started anew with a fresh paragraph and train of thought, allow me to delve right into topic-starting mode. What I so concisely referred to above is something like this: every single one of us has very profound thoughts at one point or another. Every single one of us, at that exact moment in time, realizes the magnitude of those thoughts. And every single one of us eventually forgets every single reason that at one point set those thoughts apart. Granted, I'm assuming you all know this in desperate hopes that you're like me in at least some ways, but hear me out (even if you don't care - seriously). Quite often I find myself lying in bed pondering the cosmos, Steve Carell's chest hair, and the meaning of life, in that order. Just as often I'll have a seemingly life-altering epiphany that begs to be remembered. Rightly so. It's not every day that Steve Carell's chest hair changes my life. But in all seriousness, waking up after a long night of heavy pondering and equal revelation to discover you don't remember any of it is mind-boggling, if not discouraging. What happens to the thoughts? Does their immaturity cause their demise? Do not all thoughts begin in such an infant state, developing and maturing into ideals and lifelong guidelines? It appears that diary-writers have it down to a science, but I can't help but feel that if my most profound of thoughts can't survive a night of sleep, then perhaps I'm just not ready to understand them.

It's more than evident to me that my general consciousness isn't the tabula rasa that it once was. Juxtaposed with my physical aging and fast-approaching prime, the apex of my easily-influenced consciousness has come and gone. No longer can I sit in a room and absorb the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and general ambiance of things and expect them to play heavily into my development. At the same rate, I don't wear diapers or eat smashed carrots anymore either. But just imagine, our basic ability to think comes from a time in our lives when every single thought we had was exponentially profound - even if we weren't capable of recognizing it. It seems that the most drastic changes in all of our lives occurred when the only steady thought we had was "mama and dada". For some strange reason I feel very satisfied with that. Our development is choreographed for a very precise and focused purpose - so we don't have to do it later. Solitary thoughts like the ones I produce while lying on my back at 4a.m. are no longer capable of changing the basic essence of who I am, regardless of how badly I think I want them to. Situations, events, people, places; those are what change us, those are the things that bring us from simple people to mature adults.

Oddly enough, I had no idea what would turn up when I began this piece. I'm certain that at some point last night I had a very distinct message waiting to be shared - but we all know how that goes. I realize now that getting from point A to point B is the only true way to learn, whether it be from the top of the browser to the bottom, or from the day of our birth to the moment we pass. I realize also that there's a very good chance I won't remember thinking any of these things come next week.

Perhaps it’s just as well. I was never crazy about baby food.