Lately I’ve had a lot to say. Quite paradoxically, this means I’ve spoken less. Words, like many things in life, need context to have meaning. That context doesn’t end with its typographic neighbors, but extends to the time of day, the place, the number and particulars of the persons to whom they are given. Words are a gift. For some, a precious and finite resource, saved up to be given at times most appropriate.

I was thinking about introversion today, among other things, and as is my want, my thoughts turned inward. It seems, for good or ill, my self is the dominant subject of my mind. My thoughts on introversion, sparked by an article on said subject, raised a thought I’d thought before, mainly that, though I identify very much with the introvert, I’m not fully one. On a scale, I seem to be to the side of center. Such thinking devolved. It usually does.

I find myself fascinated with neuroscience and psychology. This fascination is new, or at least, relatively new. It occurs to me that it grows out of a long standing and persistent need to be in action who I see myself in thought, the constant tension between idealism and practice, and the … frustrations of not having control over my own self.

Neuroscience, it seems, reveals a persistent bias, long suspected. We are paradoxical. Perceptions, the product of our senses, are filtered, adjusted, stitched together and modified for our own consumption. We take shortcuts. And often, we lie to our own selves. We feel certain about things that are false. Often. Yes, it does happen. And I can’t help but wonder how, with all the false information, and all the flawed perception, it is possible to know anything with any certainty at all. Pascal summed it up best I think, for he said, “It is not certain that all is uncertain”.

I used to hate to end a poem on a low note. They always felt incomplete, unfinished. Somehow there had to be a way to resolve the tension. For all the lack of understanding there is in this world, there seems to be a very real need for harmony, a way to take the disparate parts of our soul and impart meaning.

I still hate to end a piece on a low note. Somehow it feels like giving up. There is vital part of myself that refuses to give up hope for the resolve, that fantastic and satisfying moment in a symphony which has been building, back and forth, never quite reaching the tonic, and finally coming to a close, takes all the disparate themes, the discordant notes, the unsatisfying moments along the way and ties them up, settling once and for all the whole of the matter.

Well… that’s all for now I think.