I’ve never really gotten why people get so caught up in their business. I kind of figured that it helps to have something to be caught up in, like accepting religion as a means to an end. That is, if believing in a deity keeps people from savagely killing each other, great! Of course the trouble comes when they start Killing in the name of.

I’m a fan of music. Most often I like the alternative bridges between rock and country, with some 80s pop thrown in there. I think it’s because I like lyrics I can not only understand, but that have a meaning that I can conjure up without having to sit around debating metaphor with musical elitists. That’s right, elitists.

It’s like the kids smoking pot when I was growing up that had made such a lifestyle out of it. Man, if they took it any more seriously you would have thought it was their fucking job to get high or something. I can’t get behind that, and the same goes for music, and most other popular bits like fashion.

I’ve taken to heart more and more that my fashion is a utilitarian one. No, you won’t see me sporting utili-kilts or whatever craft they make rounds these parts, but I’m wearing Carhartt’s every time I can sneak them by the judges. Not because it’s somehow cool now, but because I like them. The more I’ve thought about this, the more empathy I have towards hip folk, because I have to imagine some of them just like it. Still, I lack the patience to separate them from the posers pretty much all of the time. Anyhow, I think I get it; more at least.

I didn’t really consider until tonight that this very act is my own raving about. I’ve always spoken with the caveat that my rants are exactly that and don’t form any sort of masterpiece on the human condition that others should give the time of day, which I suppose does make it a little different. But here I am carrying on anyways, and why? Well, because it’s important to me, although most look at it and have perfectly succinct explanations about why I should shut the hell up that boils down to Courtney telling me back in high school that I “think too much.” But in comparison I see that I am as much a zealot about thinking as others are about arguing chords and paints and lighting; all that artistic hoohah that I prefer myself to not give the time of day.

And to what end? I like to think that subconsciously all this thinking adds up and at least keeps me somewhat sane. It’s a venting of sort, a bit of trying to make sense of my world, because I still consider myself a bit slow, especially when it comes to people. I get by being nice and keeping confused looks off my face most of the time. The facial neutrality doesn’t actually solve anything, but merely delays the inevitable however.

With the first quarter of my life coming to a close I have no misgivings about lacking a wife and kids and the whatnot. I wouldn’t attribute it to father’s constant reminders that the American dream failed him and is therefore an utter farce. What’s interesting is I think the bulk of what I’ve accomplished is a sort of awakened confusion. I went from trotting along a road of expectations to actually sitting on the side of a path staring keenly at bits that seem somehow off to me, lacking the understanding to do much more than look at them funny and thus having little wisdom to offer the passer bys.

I prefer to think there’s more to life than meets the eye, but try to get along with having a good go of it most of the time. All the same, I’m having much difficulty dissecting myself and labeling my physical and emotional desires as such. I don’t want any scientific explanations about hormones and sex; nor anyone to tell me that love is a genetic construct to keep the race procreating. I guess I’m a romantic still, a dreamer. After all, reality is merely a bit of a critical mass of social consciousness. I can still believe whatever I want on my own terms.