the house in which I live

Once you open the door to theories of the mind, there is any number of vastly lit corridors, rooms, cubby holes, nooks and crannies that seem to serve no other purpose other than to lead on to yet more intricate and unending turns and roundabouts.

Many have tried to pin down this playground of ideas with definitions and penultimate truths, and for this I am grateful, but only insofar as having a concept to wrestle with. I’m not necessarily looking for answers – dare I say, ‘the meaning’ – to Life, I am much more excited by exploring the possibilities. Surely if I had the answers or crafted a definitive statement for myself about How Things Are, I would become bored and uninspired by the world. And then what? Without wanting to sound melodramatic, what I want to say now is ‘what would be the point?’

So true to form, as I opened the door to Freud’s id-ego-superego gauntlet searching for an all-too-cleverly constructed title for this post, the breakfast philosophy hour with my housemate poked its head through the window, looking something like this…


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…that was originally spawned out of a quest down the corridor to the right where this statement:

There are thousands of people across the world that care for others so much, and yet don’t give themselves the same attention.

…sat waiting after some raw food guru who I recently turned an eye to, watched this:

Remarkably, what began as a sweet reflection about a highly predictable, possibly cliched ideas around self-love, using overly-exaggerated – but no doubt hilarious – insights into my own stories about nicotine addiction, quickly turned into something unexpected. A walk through the shifting movements of the mind. A process rather than an outcome. And rather than putting up the curtains and placing the decorative furnishings about the place, I’m simply going to let leave you here at the door.

Because the truth is, this is the house in which I live.