A new year

This is a new year. 2015. The dawn of an awakening.

I will make a commitment to write at least once a week, with the hope of writing daily, like I once habitualized myself to do.

I’m currently in DC, visiting a highschool friend whom I was never very close with, but always held in dear regard. Our relationship the past several years has developed via text message as we exchange books, and I offer fitness advice, and we discuss occasional political or economic news. I’m in his guest room, typing away these nascent agitations that have been festering the past few years of my sabbatical from writing.

I need to awaken my stream of consciousness again, read and provide myself tinder for new thought. I must never grow complacent, never be content with the sensual pleasures I’m so apt to embrace.

I’ve been a serial dater, and fucker. I plan to end this season of my life, and turn my energies toward building something, a business perhaps, or cultivating a new trajectory or paradigm for myself. I’m 28. I need to invest in myself, become more conscientious of my wealth accumulation, or lack thereof.

I’m working out, and doing a photoshoot in about four weeks time. I’ve hired a trainer and have achieved fairly remarkable progress from seven weeks ago.

I’m seeing several therapists and life coaches and psychiatrists, all in some weird effort to right myself, and find some footing. It’s my symbolic way of reaching out to myself, that is, by reaching out to others whose job it is to help me. In theory anyway. My hope is that they will act as a catalyst, to shake myself from this stupor I’ve developed by way of overindulging in my sexual appetites.

I’m capable of dating a woman every night of the week. For many weeks, and sometimes months, I’m in a continued frenzy of dating. I work, workout, shower, and visit these women. I’ve decided to stop dating new women, and just enjoy a handful that are easy enough to manage, whose company I can stand, and whose expectations are low enough where my minimal efforts pose no threat to sustaining the relationship.

I’ve had my fill of sex. Or maybe not. But I recognize that its impact on my future probably produces a net loss. Not the best time of my resources, my time and energy, when I could be focusing my efforts on scheming, on building wealth, creating businesses, networking, seeking new employment or career opportunities, or simply cultivating myself and my character, identifying my strengths and shortcomings, leveraging my strengths, and doing whatever necessary to make up for my shortfalls.

I must write.

I’m reading an anthology on Carl Jung’s work on Active Imagination. I realized that writing was one of the most powerful outlets of my subconscious, and one of the best ways to materialize these latent anxieties so they can be dealt with constructively, rather than running from them and diving into more inane activities and sex and dating and superficial relationships to allay to discomfort of  existential confusion. I must redirect, and refocus, not treat the symptoms with more symptoms.

I have so many thoughts that cross my mind that I don’t hash out anymore. So many profound insights I fail to capture, that appear in flashes and leave, without any medium to capture the exposure. Writing is this medium, and was the most effective way of delineating these inspirational epiphanies.

I want to become a better thinker, as always, but I always want to become a better doer.

I have so many opinions.

My friends think I should start writing short stories of my dating experiences, or my sexual experiences. Perhaps one day. I’m sure there will be times I’ll have the urge to recapture these stories when I’m reliving them in all their glory. My hope is that this year, with my renewed commitment to writing, I’ll do just that.

I want to read more, and date less.

I am a master seducer. I should write about my thoughts on influence. I have many, and I feel I have almost perfected the art. Specifically with women, but also with men, and my peers.

“Have more than you show; speak less than you know,” said Shakespeare in King Lear. That is my unspoken motto, now spoken.

I will write. I will be honest. I will be transparent. This is my anonymous outlet where my imagination can become active, where experience can gain meaning, where subliminal drives and desires can manifest and I can consciously make proper use of them.

Reflection is necessary for understanding. Writing forces one to relive experiences, recite knowledge, and reformulate meaning by giving it our own direction. It is essential for developing ones opinion. If one doesn’t write, we’re left to day dream, or converse with like minds, and hope that these minds care as much as we do about the topics that cross our mind.

Goodnight, moon.

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