The Blog of A Young Man on the Edge of Losing Control

I apologise for not writing much this week, but I have fallen victim to not one but several writer’s blocks.

The first has simply been that I have been compelled to try  and finish a fair bit of work whilst I remain at Opex in particular and Onesteel in general. I do not feel like I have done the business a good turn, because I have been so self absorbed in my feeling of wastedness, and disgust at the crappy work I have had to do. So I have been trying my hardest to accomplish some final things before I leave.

The second block however is somewhat more macabre, the business surrounding my grandmother and her battle with cancer.

But rather than not have any inspiration to write, I have had much. Too much in fact. I could have written pages on anger, guilt, more on grief, and on propriety. Any number of things spring to mind in fact.

However each time I have put my fingers on the keyboard and began tapping out that irregular, chatty rhythm, I find myself overwhelmed with emotions. Anger mostly.

I have tried several times to write about my reaction to the reactions of my family members upon receiving the news about my grandmother, but I find the truth too troubling to comprehend. It troubles me immensely there selfish nature. Both sides seem to be interested in spending time with my grandmother not for her and her love, but to assuage their own guilt for the pain of their own lives, which she did not cause.

But each time I try to describe these feelings with any sort of detail, or describe their actions in any detail, I am blinded by rage, and cannot write, because what comes out doesn’t in the slightest resemble literature; it is not something which one can be proud on which to sign his name.

I find the nature of this revelation troubling. For the last months, I have turned to it as a manner of coping with the difficulties life has thrown at me. Call it some sort of meditation. Call it whatever, it has been therapeutic, and makes me feel as if I have spent the moments I was writing these thoughts like some sort of accomplishment, different to any sort of thing I have done before.

So it isn’t something which I want to lose. For the help it has given me has been great.

But I fear for it, because of the lack of inspiration of the past few days. Writing about trying to be a gentleman was one such inspiration, because it is one such thing that I believe in more than most things. Ironically, I think, that like Christianity, my other great belief, that in chivalry and propriety, is often met with confusion and misunderstanding.

But it is something with which I don’t think I can continue to muse on, as a topic, for I have exhausted my current knowledge and understanding of it.

Perhaps this means that I need to read up on it more and I do intend on studying it further, but perhaps I need to leave it be for now.

My anger is something which takes so many forms, is so complex, and layered, then perhaps I should write about it?

But no, I cannot do this either. For anger is a great evil inflicted upon the world by our sins. It is something that burns inside me, and which drives me, like a great rush of adrenaline.

It is something that I must be profoundly and utterly ashamed of. For anger is not something that a gentleman, or any person, should harbor in their souls. It is a natural thing in men, but it is something which should be spurned, and left alone, and uncontained.

For it is this force that is a great destroyer of worlds. Nothing else, except for hate, which is probably anger’s close brother.

If you look at all the events which have transpired in history which have been blamed on religion, political idealogy, or whatever else, it is not these aspects of life which cause them, but rather the anger at and intolerance towards them, by other groups of people, from other, different aspects, which causes this.

Hitler. Stalin. Osama bin Laden. Richard Dawkins. All in my view are great proponents of anger. They each had or have a viewpoint about what life or a particular aspect of is, and will do their utmost, with vitriol, hate and self-righteousness, to deliver all people to their manner of thinking. They do not respect or tolerate the people who have a differing viewpoint, and caste them aside, either by killing them, or filing them under the heading of ‘delusional’.

I do not wish to criticize anybodies view point. If you are a raging Nazi, Communist, Islamic Fundamentalist, or a passionate atheist, you have chosen your path. You have chosen differently to me, but I will respect you and your view, and not dismiss you as being mad, delusional, psychopathic or evil, because of it.

I believe I am fortunate in a manner because none of the anger I harbor is this degree of anger. Mine is somewhat closer to home, anger at personal selfishness and self-righteousness. Anger at not having gotten to where I want to be, anger at being made to work harder to achieve what some people seemingly get so easily.

But I cannot be agree about this. I must learn, and understand, that I have no cause to be angry about this. For this is one of the essences of life.

Each and every life is a journey, with a beginning and an end. But here is where the similarities end. No two lives are the same. Each person experiences different things, and they interpret them just a little bit differently, or sometimes, a lot differently, from the next person.

Life can be unbelievably, seemingly, unfairly easy, for some people. Surely everybody can name somebody or somebody’s, in their lives, who seem to get everything they want. But that is their blessing. That might even be their curse.

But that is not for us to know.

What is for us to know, and try to comprehend is that we are given one chance at this particular existence, whether you believe in heaven and hell, or reincarnation. This is the now I am talking about.

We have a finite amount of time to make it through existence being what we want to be. What we feel we should be.

So really, what advantage do we get from life if we are angry? What good does hate do us? What does coverting somebody else’s life really do for us?

It merely hurts us, and makes us wish for another life, an impossible, hopeless wish, which will destroy your hope, when you should really be thinking about what you can do to alleviate this anger, by replacing it with action.

But I’ve sat here too long lecturing. I don’t wish to lecture. This is merely my own view on this particular area. If you don’t agree with it, I won’t be angry with you.

And at least I have cured my writers block, it seems.