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Thursday, 20 October 2011

Prattling, volunteering and the inner boogyman...or boogywoman

A shameful use of $60 (guilt but no regret...S.O.S) -.- bit of light reading (?) up on schizophrenia (?) in the local park midday

Finally did it.  Got off my lily-white posterior, and stirred up the cesspool of my all-talk-no-action mind to do something.  Travelling.  Interview.  100 point ID.  Referees.  Signing forms. Volunteering.
I've been wanting to make some kind of difference for a while.  Philanthropy.  Scorching my imprint on the world.  
I'm misguided.  What truly meaningful and long-lasting difference could I make?  One singular person, with an emphasis on single  (become more aware of that to my dismay, explanations later, or another time) in a big wide world full of billions of people, all passing through life's Wheel, faceless to me, me faceless to them.  How could it possibly matter what I do?  I feel so cutely and acutely naive that I feel like someone should give me a lollypop.
Help a little bug out of a puddle? Save a snail from being crushed on the footpath?  Lure the spider out of the sink?  They seem to mean more.  They don't require a crowd, or applause, or thanks, or reciprocation.  When any of these things are sought for it cheapens benevolence.  
Just because I'm a volunteer now really means nothing.  

The bursts of intense anxiety came again today.  The library was the worst.  Psyche-psyche-psyche.  To even walk through the semi-deserted aisles was an ordeal.  Yet, on Monday I was bursting with energy and self possessed with confidence and poise etcetera.??  But I'm not going to despair, I'm gonna be like Steve from Blues Clues and get to the bottom of this.  After all, what is life without struggle? Struggle gives purpose, and consequently meaning.  But it's not my meaning, and it won't define me.    
Staring at the books in the Religion/Social Sciences/New Age/ Self Help section was overwhelming.  All these people claiming to own the answers, know the secrets, offer the best strategies for this and that, impart special knowledge, blah blah. Some of the books that depressed me: 
= deficiency.  Books like these honestly make you feel like a complete 'simpleton'.  Am I somehow lacking if I don't read them all?  Missing out, getting cheated and duped without my knowledge, worse off, critically uninformed?  Maybe that's the lure of libraries: they prey on the insecurities of people.  All they seem to do is bombard people with offers that are too good to be true, kinda like door-to-door salesmen, but you end up getting cheated one way or another because all there is in the end is concreted confusion.  Or maybe that's just me and my inability to come to conclusions easily because of an abstract mind full of holes.         
On another note, I found the Juxtapositions of juxtapositions lol
Taken at my local Hungry Jacks


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