A Fool's Diatribe -- an assignment for school that became much more personal.

A Fool’s Diatribe

Take not what I write as metaphor, allegory, or meaning, lost and veiled beyond pretty words. What I write, I do so as to be presentable at face value. I do not seek to needlessly complicate my words, your understanding of them, or the message I create. I am here to say a few things, to put these words to paper, and to possibly paint a picture.

I come to you as a cautiously open book. The person that I am, though complicated needlessly at times; possibly confusing, I’d wager, quiet when there’s nothing necessary to be said, gregarious for no apparent reason, and pointlessly logical when logic isn’t a welcome guest, is also a simple one, with no needs beyond the food on my plate, the ceiling over my head, and the bed to which I retire. But, despite the recognition of my few base needs from which I gain great appreciation, there is more.

How does one convey who they might be when who they might be is confronted with one of the age-old mysteries, created by that own pursuit of that exact question: Who am I? It seems a task doomed from the point of its undertaking. From the moment that the first word was put to the virtual paper on which I type, it seems almost pointless.

Are we not an amalgamation of parts that are at once in harmony, and contradictory in their existence? How do we make sense of these parts when the parts themselves have no clear cohesion and often only turn in on themselves? We struggle with this problem the most in our teens, unsure of ourselves, unable to stand confidently, presenting ourselves to the world. We think, as we get older, that we have a clearer picture, that perhaps we’ve figured it out. We claim in our loud, mature voices that we are adults! We know who we are! We’ve been through the worst of it and have come out a whole person, we’ve fought for identities, stood our ground, made declarations, and have given the proverbial finger to those who would not have us as we are.

But does this truly mean that it has been figured out? Or is it, perhaps, that we are just better at pretending? Sure, we may have, through trial and error, gained a clearer picture of what we want, what our most base needs are, who the people we can and can’t stand are, and whether or not we truly like our parents. We may have decided that, no matter how hard we try, we just don’t like sushi. The movies being made, the songs playing on the radio, the style of clothes that it seems everyone is wearing may in fact, just not be to our liking. But do we not spend a lifetime in the search of answers to a few questions that haunt us collectively? Have we not created, fought over, and died for belief systems that helped us to feel that we had some answers to these questions?

So, this is the crux of it. I just don’t know who I am, as a whole. The pieces are identifiable, sometimes laudable, and at other times unfortunate. They are there, and I could tell you about these. A few I will keep to myself and some I am too afraid to even consider their existence.

Bear with me as I bare my bones:

I am a son who doesn’t call enough. I am a student. I am an employee of a kick-ass company. I am a neighbor who once asked to borrow a cup of sugar. I am a consumer. I am a producer. I am a reader, a writer, and a plagiarist. I am forward, up-front, and a liar. I believe in the good in all people, yet often times see only the bad. I am impatient with weakness, but beg for acceptance of my failures. I am competitive, but often lose. I am a humble man who loves to look at himself in the mirror. I fool myself into thinking that I am narcissistic. I work hard at looking like I don’t work hard to look like how I look. I am grammatically incorrect more often than I would like, and hate it when others don’t properly conjugate. I have been known to unabashedly split the occasional infinitive. I use too many commas. I have a cat that I talk to entirely too much and who, I am convinced, talks back. I am a runner with high cholesterol. I am a walking, glorified jukebox that calls himself a DJ. I believe, quite genuinely, that I have better taste in music than you. I love to cook, but find myself cooking the same damn things over and over and over. I am a Southerner who doesn’t want to be pegged as a Southerner because I am afraid of the stereotypes that are associated with that. I love grits, but don’t really know what a grit is. I am insecure about being skinny, even though I’m not nearly as skinny as I was when I was younger. I joke about being old at 30, but feel like I am 17. I am a mediocre talent. I am a pragmatic romantic, deeply seated in reality. I cry at movies. I seem to constantly have writer’s block. I believe that you might actually want to read all of this.

I get swept away in the beauty of the world around me, lost in its story, and in creating my own. I’m convinced that this world is here for me, yet I refuse to take some of the steps necessary to make it mine, to seat me on the throne of the happiness I seek, and I look on in forlorn jealousy at those who have found theirs. I’m tossed about by the rides of opportunity – one moment enjoying great success in the passions that torment me, the next, I’m fighting to stay adrift. Music compels me, torments me, inspires me, causes me pain, brings me joy, comforts me, brings hope for the salvation of this wreck of a world, and gives voice to all the pain, beauty, strife, struggle, sacrifice, and success. It’s my untrustworthy friend: there for me when I need it, but sweeping the rug out from underneath me when I’m confident in our relationship. I’ve given so much, tried so hard to make this work, yet enjoy only a few moments of success, with the spotlight shining brightly, validating the toil.

This, then, I’m forced to face as who I am, the most prominent of my many personalities, the name tags that I wear, the costumes I don. I am a multitude, a clamor, a din, a cacophony. I am the sounds of the waves, not lapping against the shore – surely nothing quite so poetic – but the personification of those hapless grains of sand, pummeled relentlessly by the insistence of the sea. I try to grab one of those grains, call it “Me,” and pray that it is hardy enough to withstand the waves. I attempt, for a short time, to ignore the obvious rest and hold on to this one identifiable kernel in a camouflage of monotony, hoping that it will not get swept away before I can get to know it, identify with it, and make it my own. I am everything above this line in this rant: I am a confused fool, bearing a passion for music and a fear of pursuit of it that is caused, tempered, created by, or exacerbated from the humanity we all face and all of its uncertainties.

This existence is placed here for no reason we can begin to conceive, providing us with a brief taste of something wonderful, full of pain, laughter, love, regret, envy, anger, tears, and joy, allowing us to grow, to experience, filling us with wisdom and knowledge, only to pour out all of those contents at the very last, at the final hour. We try so hard to find something to give us purpose, that sometimes that search in itself becomes our purpose, a surrogate that consumes our attention and the light of our lives. We have such a flame, a burning drive to keep going, to keep doing, without a real understanding of what it is that we are doing and why we keep going. In doing so, we fly by the beauty, the calm, the serenity that exists all around us. We surround ourselves with baubles and toys that sparkle and shine, blinding us from anything else of a subtler, more natural glow.

Me? I am confused. I am confusing. I am as unknown to myself, possibly more so, as is the night to the day ­– those long-known acquaintances that meet regularly enough, but exchange hardly more than a brief nod, “hello” and “goodbye.” I know the thoughts that are in my head, but sometimes wonder at whom their speaker is. I question his motives and reasons, and am afraid to find these answers.

I fear what I might find when reading this piece. I fear what you might find, you stranger mine. You peer into my words, searching for a meaning that I warned you may not be there, second-guessing my honesty, my intentions, the need to say what I’ve said. Find in this then whatever meaning is best reflected by your own experiences, hurts, heart-aches, victories, and successes. And, perhaps, in the midst of doing so, find as well my small voice, adding to your own, together creating our own meaning and message. Find this, my new friend: a fool’s diatribe.