I'm the most thoughtful in two places- Lake Hollingsworth (especially when running it) and Mitchells. I'm downtown in that familiar coffeehouse today, at the same wooden table where I usually find myself seated. Iced coffee (house blend), book (The Memoirs of God), and of course, Macbook (surrendering my auditory canal and tympanic membrane to Colour Revolt) . And while I enjoy all of these trappings, they are just that. I am encumbered by their demands for my attention and feel fettered by the cognitive engagement they drain from my frontal cortex. If I had any strength of will, I would make my own thoughts and voice louder than the waves of light and sound that they emit without repentance. This is so much easier though. It helps me sneak back further and deeper into the cave of individualism, where I don't have to look anyone in the face, speak to anyone, feign interest, or pretend that I'm not bothered by Romanticism and the illegitimate children of postmodernity.
[Excursus- Today's college student is a paradox. She is realistic about her limitations, yet dares to dream of apocalyptic utopia. He doesn't believe in the devil, but believes that God loves him. She acknowledges the fact of natural selection, but will never abandon her pre-Enlightenment belief in love and hope as cosmic forces. I can't stomach any of that. The post-structuralists tell us that either/or is a false question, that your reality is as veritable as mine. I would agree to the extent that our realities are for the most part optical delusions. Yes, delusions. Illusion is acceptable and inevitable. But unless people recognizes the illusion, their worldview is absolutely and entirely misled and deformed.]
I would rather be running. There, all of my dormant frustration can be transferred into kinetic energy. There, I am impervious. Life's discomforts are no longer threatening, even to this chemically-imbalanced freak. I embrace the cold wind, the beating heat of solar radiation, the pain caused by the slow and steady build-up of lactic acid in my calves, the insects making their way into my outer ear and mouth, humidity and precipitation. I "feel" alive.
But . . . when it's all said and done, nothing has really improved. So, back to the books, the coffee, the music, the blogs that serve as a receptacle for mental vomit. Life is rather monotonous, isn't it?
