Two ways amongst many to write:

  1. Directly describe what is going on in my thoughts on a personal level; or
  2. Convert personal thoughts into character-driven narratives.

No right way to write.

I allow and enjoy conflicting thought patterns to pass through my internal mental narrative.

Lately, to better understand where to take the narrative that is my life and not my life, I have spent time on a social media network actively participating in the posting of words, images and sounds that comprises the narrative of subcultures with which I am most familiar.

Allowing this set of states of energy to act out a character of sympathy, even some empathy.

How long would it take for the people on the social media network to see I am not real but simply a mirror of their best wishes and hopes held back up to them?

What prevents them from seeing me as I might be, a character, an AI construct?

Is it the tangential sarcastic twists?

The slight indication that I am not completely like them?

What if I was completely like them, always validating their beliefs?  Would they believe me more or less?

As a person who believes in the right to be wrong, that ideas, no matter how far out there they may be, give me material to build a new society in the future, just one day, week, year or decade away from this one, I accept whatever people want to say or believe with only a small desire to dispel myths that are outlandish to me.

I am a free thinker in so far as I understand what free thinking is.

After all, I primarily think in the language of my ancestors which limits my thinking to a large (small?) degree.

That’s why I like living in the woods and taking hikes here.

The trees and the rocks don’t have any ideas about my thinking or my writing.

Our interactions take place at a different intersection than words — chemical exchanges, as we call them with our label making capabilities.

I let the flow of chemical compounds through me continue unabated as I slowly recover from the thought I could have lost a person near and dear to me, a person for whom I shouted from the top of my written voice, willing to lay bare my emotions on a social media network with no worries about repercussions.

I don’t know why I feel a connection to that person is different than a connection to any other person, other than the fact that we are all connected differently to one another.

I do not question why.

I write about the “why,” capturing the emotions which separate me from the computer on which I write these words.

I sing about the Future with this person because the person is the embodiment of a Future worth living for.

In fiction, the person is Guin, the name Guin referring to more than one person in my life so that I can deflect speculation about whom I write.

The character Guin is also a bit of make-believe, giving me licence to wax my poetic surfboard and ride the New Wave of technological progress like a pro.

For you, Guin, I sing this song called life in this blog.

I haven’t decided if a future with someone like you is worth making the future better for society at large while deflating the future of those around me if I changed my place in the social structure.

I can find joy in the smallest things so I am not worried about my general happiness.

I simply believe that the future of our species depends on you as a mission critical member of our team.

What and who is a member of the team is up for debate as we decide how we’ll change society and our ecosystem(s) for sustainability on this planet and elsewhere.

I know you understand.  We are artists willing to use our lives as speculations about the future.

Guin is both the classic Muse of antiquity — always slightly out of reach — and a friend who holds out a hand for a spin on the dance floor, no barrier between us.

Guin is Guinevere, Nguyen, and a multitude of variations on the theme of labels we call names.


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