such a ridiculous waste of words

I babble, others intellectualize, some rant, some rage, some humor themselves, some humor others, all the world's a stage and the words are the players, welcome to the blogosphere...

but what, if anything, is accomplished?... what do we get or make of it all?... are we communicating or just blowing our own horns in a vast traffic jam of thoughts and ideas, feelings and emotions, dualities and dichotomies, and near misses...

is it even worth asking any questions?... or answering?...

sometimes I feel it is all such a ridiculous waste of words, a way to confuse, amuse, and refuse to truly share... a way of avoiding, disassociating, transferring, playing mind games, distracting, repressing, projecting, and pretending to be sharing when all that's really going on is gas passing... or london bridges falling down, falling down, falling down...

and like minds seek like ways to reinforce their like ridiculous wastes... intellectuals seek other intellectuals to ramble on and on saying nothing (or, if something, then the same something over and over and over) in as many words as possible, while not moving one step closer to anything meaningful outside of their distant agreement... those in denial (which covers the vast majority) seek others in a similar denial to explain things in words that reinforce their particular way of denying... pessimists seek pessimests, depressives seek depressives, each seeks a similar to validate their way...

such a ridiculous waste of words when nothing is accomplished, when nothing is actually done, when all that happens is a reinforcement of procrastination or denial of the procrastination, of the self-destruction, of the waste...

no one wants to hear it because everyone does it to one extent or another, though everyone wants to believe they don't... and some write whiney or haughty essays on how wasteful it all is, how foolish, how futile, as if they are somehow immune, above, beyond the stupidity we so ironically call human nature (an oxymoron?)...

what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms

this is perhaps why the writing that gets the most attention and response is the rhetoric, the writings to no one... and then the compaints, the negative words, the complaints, the pessimism, the cynicism, the despair... the vast collective despair... and the long winded explanations that mean nothing, but somehow feel good because they provide some comfort that you are not the only one so confused, so depressed, so torn, so lost feeling alone or hurt or angry or betrayed or hapless or helpless or hopeless... as if someone leaving a comment of a hundred words (or more) is not merely masturbating their own ego, but sincerely caring about you, the stranger they've never met and do not know... and we want to preach a beautiful tribute to love and devotion...

healing is a process in which the beautiful memories rise to the surface to shine like diamonds in a field of coal from which they were made... the deeper and darker the base, the depths of emotion, the brighter those diamonds can shine...

there is no complete elimination of pain of such a loss, but there is understanding that the pain is beautiful too because it reinforces the love, proves the love was truly real, and allows new love to be powerful when we are ready to build upon it... the pain is proof that the heart knows how to love deeply... and can do so again...

it is only perspective that must change...

and the positive fluff, or even the positive depth, gets mostly ignored because it's fantasy, illusion, beyond the grasp of the real for so many... from the bible and every holy text to science fiction and fantasy stories (as if there is a difference) to the blogs we love, hate, or ignore... so often it is the same pattern...

it's like a sunday morning sermon... here in the blogosphere... a quest for truth... a plea for reassurance... a command to follow, a call to arms, a blessing, a curse, for better or worse... the dream of love, romance, passion, companionship, understanding, acceptance, devotion, love, as we ask Who is the third who walks always beside you? as if we comprehend the author's reasoning, or even our own... the last great (or not so great) vestige of power, the last refuge for the commen man (and woman and child), the internet has become the last great wasteland... T.S. Eliot may be laughing or rolling in his grave, metaphorically, to be so prophetic as as we've all come together in one place to celebrate April...

'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakesperian Rag
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
'What shall we ever do?'

such a ridiculous waste of words when a write writes on and on and says nothing, or the same thing over and over, and everyone misses the point...

not that he did, or I did, or you do, or anyone who might be in the least offended or moved to an original thought by the context of the content, heaven forbid we acknowledge the pretext that keeps us smiling at each other so poleasantly, so secure in the niceties or our cordiality and, dare we mouth the word, friendships... but do we ever really hear what the thunder said?... as if there was water...

hurry up please it's time... did you hear?... hurry up please it's time... do you care?... hurry up please it's time it's time... is anyone aware and what's the difference if nobody is here... back to the forest, back to the tree that falls with nobody there... no one to see... no one to hear...

but this never happens, does it? :)

. . . . . . . . .

(with a nod to T.S.Eliot and others of his ilk)...