CnGy
06-06-2009, 12:43 PM
Every person does things for really only one reason, and it’s not really a good reason either. However, it’s the only real one. Now, they may disguise this omega of motivation with such jibes as “because I feel like it,” or, “I’m really bored,” possibly even, “I have to.” But really, you don’t have to do anything, you’re never bored, and you definitely don’t know how you feel, ever. So, what then, is the only reason you do any thing?
It’s because you want to do it. “Should,” “just cuz,” “it’s the right thing to do,” “my mother would be proud,” these are all just a way of saying the same old thing without really admitting it. Any noble cause, a justly entrepreneurial adventure which shelters the homeless, or even a convent of good nuns who educate young ladies on how to be proper children of Christ, these are all really just schemes come off as being things that are good. The art of being a good has never been actually what one does, it’s simply how one does a thing, and how it looks to others who are looking at how he does the thing, and then wishing they could do it as good as he is. They’ll often come up with reasons for why they could never do it as well; they don’t have the time, mostly, or they couldn’t possibly see themselves doing it correctly, whatever it is.
All these reasons are actually excuses, designed to dignify our want, the one reason, and all other reasons, put simply, are bollocks. However, there is more to it than simply want. This, the other half of the equation of life, is just as important as the first half, if not more so. It is the element of possible probability, it is the function could, and without could, no want would even be possible. Without knowing you could, you never would have, without knowing it was possible, you never really would’ve wanted to in the first place.
There’s a thing we give a name to for those who want to do things impossible. It’s called depression, or the art of suppressing reality. It also has other names including but not limited to aspiration, conviction, vision, a big fuckin’ idea, and many more. It isn’t always a bad thing, in fact those who suffer from it are more often than not the brightest and boldest of minds. There’s a theory that everyone depressed is actually an inventor trapped in the wrong time.
So there we have it, the two denominators of all organisms. The want and the could. One should note though, that everyone’s wants and coulds are completely different from one another. We all want some thing, and we all could so some thing. These things are all completely different, and it is these things that make us who we are. There are good and bad people, just as there are good or bad wants. There are bad people who could be good, and good people that definitely want to be bad, but can’t (they just don’t think they could), and there are bad people who could never be good, and there are really really good people that could never in their wildest dreams conceive of ever being anything but. It is with a person of the latter nature in which our story begins. He is the last true Samaritan (good Samaritans are really just crooks with contagious smiles and a penchant for charity finances) and he’s highly frustrated, as all true Samaritans secretly are.
The place was, conveniently, a pub full of righteously bad individuals, the setting was a happy looking sunny summer evening, and time was everywhere to be found wasting away. Which way, no one can be sure, and our main character, the last true Samaritan, who we’ll call Sam (it’s what his mom and friends call him, on occasion Sammy suffices), is of course the designated driver and designated thinker, he is currently watching out for his friends, who are the only reason he’s there in the first place.
“Sam have you ever listened to Louis Armstrong for hours on end? I have, and let me tell you it’s quite a liberating experience. Absolutely marvelous! Really.” His friend was drunk. All of them were. Sam tried to enter a state of complete oblivion without letting anyone realize it.
“Armstrong, he’s a classic.”
His friend smiled. A smile that opened up her eyes and revealed intoxicated retinas. I will not give names to the people that are Sam’s friends, for they mean nothing. In his own bad feelings, Sam felt similar about them; he felt this way about all people.
After all, if Jesus couldn’t do it, who was he to even attempt anything?
Sam closed his own eyes for a moment, attempting to bring about a calm center, to cut off these bad feelings from surrounding goings and comings of all the bar folk. He wasn’t going anywhere at the moment, but apathetic dogma would lead him nowhere forever, it would fix his inner laziness and in the end consume all of his good notions, all of his solid virtuous beliefs, and every sensible rationale and replace it with common human indecency. In a word, it was selfish, and so he kept his eyes closed, successfully ridding himself of these negative things. Step back he thought, contribute to reality.
“My favorite by far is his trumpet work, I feel that his voice is too well-liked to be taken seriously.” Sam smiled as he said it. The smile indicated what he was saying wasn’t serious, that he liked all of Louis, voice, soul, and spirit. His friends put were at ease, and went to get more trinkets of their own voice, soul, and spirit from the bar. Sam closed his eyes again, this time in a happy retreat designed not for escape but rather mental balance. Sam was the type of person who liked to close his eyes quite often, some saw it as rude, but others took it to mean that he was some sort of oracle. They’d be half right, although Sam wouldn’t have known of this rightness until recently.
While the friends were away fetching their ease, there was a new person that entered the establishment. It was odd, Sam felt this person enter before he opened his eyes to look, it was a strong feeling, akin to how your foot feels when it comes out of falling asleep, or when the caffeine from a cup of coffee kicks inside your digestive. It was an uneasy feeling.
yeah added more weee!
It’s because you want to do it. “Should,” “just cuz,” “it’s the right thing to do,” “my mother would be proud,” these are all just a way of saying the same old thing without really admitting it. Any noble cause, a justly entrepreneurial adventure which shelters the homeless, or even a convent of good nuns who educate young ladies on how to be proper children of Christ, these are all really just schemes come off as being things that are good. The art of being a good has never been actually what one does, it’s simply how one does a thing, and how it looks to others who are looking at how he does the thing, and then wishing they could do it as good as he is. They’ll often come up with reasons for why they could never do it as well; they don’t have the time, mostly, or they couldn’t possibly see themselves doing it correctly, whatever it is.
All these reasons are actually excuses, designed to dignify our want, the one reason, and all other reasons, put simply, are bollocks. However, there is more to it than simply want. This, the other half of the equation of life, is just as important as the first half, if not more so. It is the element of possible probability, it is the function could, and without could, no want would even be possible. Without knowing you could, you never would have, without knowing it was possible, you never really would’ve wanted to in the first place.
There’s a thing we give a name to for those who want to do things impossible. It’s called depression, or the art of suppressing reality. It also has other names including but not limited to aspiration, conviction, vision, a big fuckin’ idea, and many more. It isn’t always a bad thing, in fact those who suffer from it are more often than not the brightest and boldest of minds. There’s a theory that everyone depressed is actually an inventor trapped in the wrong time.
So there we have it, the two denominators of all organisms. The want and the could. One should note though, that everyone’s wants and coulds are completely different from one another. We all want some thing, and we all could so some thing. These things are all completely different, and it is these things that make us who we are. There are good and bad people, just as there are good or bad wants. There are bad people who could be good, and good people that definitely want to be bad, but can’t (they just don’t think they could), and there are bad people who could never be good, and there are really really good people that could never in their wildest dreams conceive of ever being anything but. It is with a person of the latter nature in which our story begins. He is the last true Samaritan (good Samaritans are really just crooks with contagious smiles and a penchant for charity finances) and he’s highly frustrated, as all true Samaritans secretly are.
The place was, conveniently, a pub full of righteously bad individuals, the setting was a happy looking sunny summer evening, and time was everywhere to be found wasting away. Which way, no one can be sure, and our main character, the last true Samaritan, who we’ll call Sam (it’s what his mom and friends call him, on occasion Sammy suffices), is of course the designated driver and designated thinker, he is currently watching out for his friends, who are the only reason he’s there in the first place.
“Sam have you ever listened to Louis Armstrong for hours on end? I have, and let me tell you it’s quite a liberating experience. Absolutely marvelous! Really.” His friend was drunk. All of them were. Sam tried to enter a state of complete oblivion without letting anyone realize it.
“Armstrong, he’s a classic.”
His friend smiled. A smile that opened up her eyes and revealed intoxicated retinas. I will not give names to the people that are Sam’s friends, for they mean nothing. In his own bad feelings, Sam felt similar about them; he felt this way about all people.
After all, if Jesus couldn’t do it, who was he to even attempt anything?
Sam closed his own eyes for a moment, attempting to bring about a calm center, to cut off these bad feelings from surrounding goings and comings of all the bar folk. He wasn’t going anywhere at the moment, but apathetic dogma would lead him nowhere forever, it would fix his inner laziness and in the end consume all of his good notions, all of his solid virtuous beliefs, and every sensible rationale and replace it with common human indecency. In a word, it was selfish, and so he kept his eyes closed, successfully ridding himself of these negative things. Step back he thought, contribute to reality.
“My favorite by far is his trumpet work, I feel that his voice is too well-liked to be taken seriously.” Sam smiled as he said it. The smile indicated what he was saying wasn’t serious, that he liked all of Louis, voice, soul, and spirit. His friends put were at ease, and went to get more trinkets of their own voice, soul, and spirit from the bar. Sam closed his eyes again, this time in a happy retreat designed not for escape but rather mental balance. Sam was the type of person who liked to close his eyes quite often, some saw it as rude, but others took it to mean that he was some sort of oracle. They’d be half right, although Sam wouldn’t have known of this rightness until recently.
While the friends were away fetching their ease, there was a new person that entered the establishment. It was odd, Sam felt this person enter before he opened his eyes to look, it was a strong feeling, akin to how your foot feels when it comes out of falling asleep, or when the caffeine from a cup of coffee kicks inside your digestive. It was an uneasy feeling.
yeah added more weee!