staccato

A disjointed post to re-activate my blog brain and to stop my mind from going down a path of pure empiricism. What does writing do for me? It pushes thoughts out in a format that isn't lazy. Seeing thoughts in concrete lettering makes me scoff at the gaping holes in them.Now poetry (or my version of it) is easy. It's not meant to have structure. It can be as fleeting and tangential as I sometimes feel. Prose, prose... the nemesis ...

Current philosophical dilemma:
The elusive nature of time and life has been firmly established.Where is the balance between maximising the present and being prudent about 'securing' for the future. In a time when the present life is seen as the end in itself, securing security at every point seems to be the overwhelming pressurising thrust. This tends to make one insecure (oh great irony) and selfish in a way. Gathering enough so that you may always have enough. But is enough ever enough? Planning , building, securing ... for a later that may never come.

While 'peer pressure' was once written off as a challenge of teenagers, I wonder about the pressure to 'succeed'- to have tangible accolades as a medallion for efforts put in.
I realised that you can't run away from 'pressures', they will follow you or you will return to them. The solution, i know (with my mind, not heart) lies in creating a space around yourself. An impenetrable fortress of determination (the magnitude of that statement is enough to put me off striving for this).

If these thoughts seem staccato,then it's a perfect manifestation of me right now. I know that cohesion is a process. Patience,patience... the nemesis.