This isn’t the Lord Prayer, it should be the prayer of the people. It is my labour of soul.

This isn’t the Lord Prayer, it should be the prayer of the people. It is my labour of soul.

I will preference this very carefully and succinctly as I can by saying, I wish I could have put this out before this movie did. Never has such beautiful statement of true humanity. At least from my life experience, and if it is true, of yours as well as long as your enjoy the night as much as the day as two sides of the whole.

Excerpt from Synecdoche, New York:

"Everything is more complicated then you think. You only see a tenth of what is true, and there are a million little strings attached to every choice you make. You can destroy your life ever time you chose, but maybe you won’t know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out, just try to figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is it’s what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born, but while alive, you wait in vain wasting years for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes, or it seems to but it doesn’t really. So you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along, something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is, I feel so angry. And the truth is, I feel so fucking sad. And the truth is, I felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long. And for just as long I have been pretending I’m okay just so I can get along. Just for, I don’t know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen."

Simply put, there is such sadness in these words, such death. Yet there is such life in them, because they are indistinguishable. We will all die, and that is what defines our life. We all will live in that shadow, and we all find even darker recesses from our explorations of the shadow. While this never highlights the amazing moments, when the light peaks through the branches of that tree, when the shadow on the ground moves and lives in dancing light and playful absence, it still embodies that moment. The moment where we can sigh in contentment and let those thoughts drift away. They are in that diatribe, they are in there as sure as they are in our lives. They are covered ad nausem within the other billion movies, books, songs, poems, and episodic small talk sessions.
Our lives are good, they are short, and they are cruelly ridged in that.

There is not a single word of that movie, written by Charlie Kaufmen, that I cannot endorse with 100% of my being. I have spoken them a thousand times with every combination of breath, silence, and body movement capable from my physical and spiritual form. Just as these words are truth I write in vain attempt to forge connections with those who are me, and not of me.
I know they are words that would suggest a cry for help to the normal person, but those who have examined their own lives, those with a depth know this is a celebration. Misery doesn’t love company, Humans hate isolation. No thought is lonelier then that, no hardship greater, no depression more severe. We are all identical in the fact that these constructs, no matter the way they manifest throughout our existence, are present.

I wrote this about a year ago, I decided it would be my foreword into the book I proclaimed I would write. I feel that this thought is applicable to all of my writing and definitely goes hand and hand with this topic. I would want the end of my book to properly convey what has been written to this point, and the beginning to resemble this foreword, but with more subtlety and nuance. So I feel today I will put on this blog the end of my feelings first through what you have read from a movie and myself, and finish with the beginning.

I’m just thinking right now that I am trying to put together something.Like so many others, I think I know something, as if my life has some meaning, something that is unexplainable. I have read the classics and it’s all the same. I’m just a guy. What is the difference between me and Hemingway or Kerouac? Interesting stories perhaps, but it’s all the same when it comes down to it. I am going to try to bluff as if I speak the truth. Take what I know is true and wrap it in a colorful bluff so it is the same, or at least I hope. I think I know what not to say, I just have to figure out what to say.
I would love to write something that someone could decode, I mean if skillfully done someone, and I mean a rare someone, could identify it understand and make that connection. You can sit alone and be alone, or you could explain yourself. Tell someone about yourself but you never learn anything from being told, and they will just look at you as if you are crazy and then you might as well be. That is the isolation we all seek to shatter, that is the immortality that we seek and poorly by most standards. Echo throughout time not a name, or a motto, but knowledge about the truth. Simply put the only thing we know in truth is ourselves, and the only way to share that is to find you in someone else. Or, at the very least, put yourself out and hope someone finds themselves in you.