Maybe my mind is not messier than that of others. I could be imagining my chaos, unaware the condition is shared across the board and therefore, a norm. A commonality characterizing the human specie. Our disorganized plans for fixing the universe being just that, an attribute of our typical thinking patterns.
Some would call it creative chaos, the superbness of complications: That mental untidiness, a paragon. Clutters and imagination considered good substitutes. Innovation and vision as degrees of disorder within a system. Artistry like a panic struggle against the forces of nature. Discrepancies always being the key to an idea. Incoherence inherently part of the act of designating everything under the Sun. And then losing the common thread that runs through us all.
I could have wrongly thought I was special, my muddles all over the place, stacks of unsolved and obsolete mysteries blocking the view, preventing me from looking, forging ahead. Believing I’m out of the ordinary, engulfed in chronically self-replicating pontifications seeking credibility through outrageous accumulation. The diabolical spirit of the collector surpassed by the mad amount of items to file, the breakdown spontaneously imminent. So many cross-references that the chart gets darkened beyond recognition and usability. I may have thought I was unique. A taint, a shameful expression of failure. Archiving under ‘deplorable’ the fact I always saw myself on the edges of blurry problems, never at the heart of clear solutions. Marginal and incapable of respected attainment.
Indeed, such a false perception may have been from the start the crux of the imbroglio. As I age, I see intense states of chaos often displayed around me as models of excellence. And I get more confused. In the words of many, I’m getting much better.
Improvements of the kind have never been part of my intent.
Have never belonged to my decisions, those duly recorded under menial beliefs in peace and quiet.
I will therefore decline the promotion.
laolao
Some would call it creative chaos, the superbness of complications: That mental untidiness, a paragon. Clutters and imagination considered good substitutes. Innovation and vision as degrees of disorder within a system. Artistry like a panic struggle against the forces of nature. Discrepancies always being the key to an idea. Incoherence inherently part of the act of designating everything under the Sun. And then losing the common thread that runs through us all.
I could have wrongly thought I was special, my muddles all over the place, stacks of unsolved and obsolete mysteries blocking the view, preventing me from looking, forging ahead. Believing I’m out of the ordinary, engulfed in chronically self-replicating pontifications seeking credibility through outrageous accumulation. The diabolical spirit of the collector surpassed by the mad amount of items to file, the breakdown spontaneously imminent. So many cross-references that the chart gets darkened beyond recognition and usability. I may have thought I was unique. A taint, a shameful expression of failure. Archiving under ‘deplorable’ the fact I always saw myself on the edges of blurry problems, never at the heart of clear solutions. Marginal and incapable of respected attainment.
Indeed, such a false perception may have been from the start the crux of the imbroglio. As I age, I see intense states of chaos often displayed around me as models of excellence. And I get more confused. In the words of many, I’m getting much better.
Improvements of the kind have never been part of my intent.
Have never belonged to my decisions, those duly recorded under menial beliefs in peace and quiet.
I will therefore decline the promotion.
laolao
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