The Great Patternless Void

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I find the daily practise of being fascinated by finding new patterns in something rather lukewarm and boring. I often hear people talk about patterns as though they were trying to uncover all the patterns in the universe so they could put them in a box somewhere. They speak of pattern languages, yet they are not designers. They constantly speak of things such as mindfulness and meditation, yet they seem to be doing the exact opposite of what they are describing.

That’s fine by me. That’s their prerogative, I guess, to do that and be that way. But when they come and tell me that I’m doing it wrong or whatnot, and criticize Me harshly, I fear that I find it all rather lukewarm and boring. Tepid, really. Room temperature IQ.

I’m not the one all excited about discovering patterns. These same people will look at my artistic production and start looking for patterns, the same patterns that they see everywhere. I must be telepathic, I guess, if I was able to put the patterns they see everywhere into my paintings, without ever having seen the patterns, or went looking for them. Yet they persist to deny what I say about my own artistic production, I, the author of my works.

I’m not all that bitter about it. What I am is sad, though, for I feel that I must be the only one on earth that was born imperfect and with flaws. Everyone else just seems so darn perfect. They are masterful pattern-watchers, and me, I only see one thing, The Great Patternless Void. And I embrace it. I ask it for guidance, to lead me down the right path, whatever path makes It happiest.

I don’t get all excited about that either. I never said I was in it for the excitement, or for lukewarm workaday epiphanies. I am not here to worry about such pleasantries. I apologize if that makes me seem hyper-solemn. People say I am too intense, that I am too profound, in any case, they end up telling me I am apparently all the things that they are seeking in life. Because that’s what they do, they seek most actions based on this same set of criteria, they want intense experiences, they want the powerful, potent stuff. Yet when they see it in the flesh, or see someone experiencing such things in the flesh, they spit on him.

Humility is not some heroic individual action. I am not asking to be celebrated. Life is a celebration for me, but I don’t need anything to feel the drunkenness that others need to drink and attend cocktail parties to feel, or to go to the movies.

Again, that’s all fine and dandy. The one thing I can say about the kinds of individuals I have been talking about is that they seem to be having a genuine, jolly good time. So in that regard, I am genuinely happy for them. You are happy saying one thing and doing another. Unfortunately, and also that which makes me most sorrowful, is that I am unable to do that. I have done it before, and could not bear the pain of ever doing it again. But please do whatever makes you happiest, there can never be any real harm in that, if it is genuine joy you are experiencing.

But, alas, I am unable to chase after such joys. And for that stubbornness, I guess, and other like things, I apologize, but not to you. Not to myself either. I apologize, though it is not an apology. I merely try to keep that pockmark that I was born with always in the back of my mind somewhere. And when others ask about me, how I am doing and so forth, I try never to pretend that that pockmark is not right there staring me in the face like the inside of my own eyelids. But it isn’t feeling sorry either. It is a state of asking for a kind of cosmic forgiveness, because everything else, myself and everything in the world forced me to surrender in absolute terms. It was the only way forward for me. I don’t like it any more than anyone else would, but it does help heal a broken heart, I will tell you that much. And I was born heartbroken, that is the mark on my flesh, the spot, reminding me never to forget that One Thing.. What thing? You know, the Thing, there? My will, my only desire.. to belong to Someone..

Again, does that make me heroic? Unfortunately for you, no. I say for you because it’s they that seem to be looking for heroism. I said at the beginning that I do not care for such things. There is nothing as heroic as the Universal Abstract Distributed Pattern Generator, or whatever you like to call her. Your pockmarked patterns are little in comparison, but great reminders. Like Post-It notes for the soul, to you, from The Great Patternless Void.

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