Idle Rambling
My First Ever Journal Entry (Originally Written 9/8/2024)
"Do you keep a journal?" That is what Emerson asked Thoreau, and that was all that needed to be asked for those incomparable pages to be filled. As I sit here, gazing across the infinitely beautiful forest, I let my mind wander as I did while getting here. How many insights, those momentary glimpses of genius, pass through our minds, forever lost to the world; thoughts that might have changed the course of history, only to leap into oblivion as we barely recall what inspired us so. I hereby announce to the world that this is the journal of Joseph Diaz. Not new in conception, of course, but unique, as it tells my thoughts—thoughts never before thought by anyone. Our thoughts are like grains of sand, forever alike yet never identical. Snowflakes fall to earth with equal rapidity, yet never do they land exactly as the previous ones did. I wish in these pages to record my unfiltered thoughts as they come to me. I want to accomplish something I’ve thought of in the past but never saw to fruition. I think about how blessed and grateful I am to live at the time I do; to have the works of every genius available to me at a moment’s notice. The maxims of La Rochefoucauld, the dialogues of Plato, the poetry of Milton, and the aphorisms of Nietzsche. I can peruse the autobiography of Franklin or the journals of Emerson. I could have Homer read to me in the original Greek, or enjoy Goethe in his unsurpassed German. I can argue with Cicero if I so wish, and have all Roman orators tell me what is missing in my ornamentations. I could feel inspired by the chanting’s of the Vedas or the recitations of the almighty Qur'an. Lastly, if I so wished, I could call on God himself at any moment and hear his divine words in the Psalms.
My current century has allowed man to find himself in all avenues of life, and to have every interest supported by the greatest encouragement. Yet I write this very first journal entry as a lament to my current self. Despite all the greatness a scholar like myself has been blessed by fortune with, I find I am at a loss for what to do with myself. As the sun descends and is obscured by the clouds, I feel as if these penetrating rays have not found their course to me, but to something else. Is it what my heart tells me? Have I ever considered what I really want? I sometimes don't even know if what my heart tells me is true; so often have I made the negative experiences in my life the dominating examples of what is to come of my labors. Destructive thinking? I call it honest facts; this is how I feel right now: completely lost in the sea of life, with potential prospects made far-off and unattainable by my timidity and amateur acquaintance with the practical duties of life. So funny it is that, in my era, I can learn to do anything I desire, yet fail to take action in almost every necessity. I have always chalked it up to lack of interest, and maybe this is true. Ever since my youth, I have made it a duty of mine to avoid things I have no interest in, all of which I felt was contrary to my nature. It’s a simple philosophy that has made me a very happy man; but what is to come when you must face the world and do necessary things you have no interest in? What are you to do when the necessities of life come knocking at your door; and, instead of facing them with temerity, you hide away and pretend you’re not home? I don’t know, and I feel at times that no one truly does; for how often do those with a semblance of routine find what they do to be completely innocuous. What have they done recently that they can call great or exciting? How empty are our dreams of a so-called “good life”? It’s a dream, because you have to be asleep to believe it. Most people don’t even think about their lives in any critical sense; I find they rather drift along like a leaf upon a rushing riverbank.
Today is also significant because it marks the first time I read the journals of Emerson. What a great influence he has been on me, and which I can only repay here, in these words forever immortalized in ink I clumsily scratch along the page. Every word consumes me with insight and inspiration. But I return to that anguish, that lack of an all-encompassing drive to direct my life. The question of what you want to do feels almost like subjecting yourself to a path that, once chosen, can never be undone—till death do you part, as they say. In situations like these, the best advice is often to take stock of your options and go from there. It pains me when I realize how dim these prospects really are. My heart tells me the pursuit of a literary career would be most beneficial and most satisfying; but my mind tells me to become the mediocre bookkeeper I am most likely to become. I don’t even know why I majored in Accounting to begin with. I despise money and anyone who views it as life’s sole end; so much of America today has become a one-stop shop of misery and shattered dreams. So many people, endless in number, go to college for the sake of a career and financial security alone, as if those were the only important things in life. These same people become the most myopic, mindless, thoughtless vagabonds known to man. All they boast of is how hard they have worked to impress others who couldn’t genuinely care less. These are the same people who filled their high school schedules with AP courses in hopes of impressing Ivy League admissions officers. What nonsense! Putting yourself under so much stress, worrying about grades in classes you don’t care for, all for the potential dream of acceptance; you bought a lie if you think that is a path to happiness. You’ve been defrauded and should demand your dignity back; or better yet, strike out on your own path rather than following the aimless multitude.
Stop and consider what you really want. Have you ever actually done this before? It’s best to do this at a young age, lest you end up in the situation I’m in now; a 22-year-old who has no idea where to put his skills and interests. I’ve heard people say to me: “You’re still young, you have your whole life ahead of you; your journey is just beginning, don’t worry too much about it.” Easy for someone who has already established themselves in the world to say; whether you’re happy in your career or not is beside the point here, it’s whether you have a goal that gets you out of bed every morning. Ah, Joseph, you fool—that’s just it, you don’t know what goal to pursue. Look at what you’ve accomplished so far: two written books ready for publication, a tremendous amount of knowledge in various areas of scholarship, a healthy body and mind, a nice book collection, a loving family, and a roof over your head. What more could you need to start your life? I think that’s just your problem, Joseph; by knowing so much about possible outcomes, you’ve scared yourself into taking no action at all, for they appear meaningless to you. How often is it true that children mature faster when they encounter misfortune early in life? The worst situations spur them either to reflect the debauchery of their surroundings or to rise above it: the former homeless man knows to steer clear of a current homeless man, for the mere sight of homelessness weakens and revolts his spirit. You were forged in fire, and you now allow your embers to fall by the wayside to extinguish themselves; do not go into that dark night, Joseph.
Life is, and always has been, a struggle that crushes those who allow themselves to be crushed. Appear like a worm, and no one will pity you should someone trample you with glee. To drink is to make yourself a willing beast, but for man to become beast is to forget the hardships of being a man. To struggle with yourself is one aspect of life; and to suffer self-doubt is natural in a world filled with so many successful and enviable people. What's important to remember are your values. There are no facts in the realm of the subjective; there is only informed opinion and feeling. In life, one must be willing to see with their hands and feel with their eyes if they are to find the courage to move past their inadequacies. How often does our uncertainty prevent us from living fully? How much longer are we to contemplate while others are making necessary moves to build themselves out of nothing? Or would you rather live the life of Nietzsche: a man who idealized the health and vigor necessary for affirming ourselves into confidence, yet who lived a weak, contemplative, hermit-like existence. His life was a contradiction to his principles, especially those of the Übermensch and Will to Power; we often find truth in the adage that man praises most what he cannot attain. Our conceptions of true pleasure are skewed by our biases, which we had no say in shaping. This is misfortune on a grand scale, as we leave our lives to the whims of external causes rather than self-actualizing, life-affirming pursuits, which fulfill the soul.
One may say when lost as to what to do in life that anything shall do, and as I write out this rather long-winded journal entry, I find myself agreeing with this sentiment. One cannot contemplate and plan for all things in life; at some point, you’re going to have to act whether you like it or not. Come on, Joseph, shake these shackles off, these pointless burdens that accomplish nothing but setbacks. You can either become what you can when you cannot become what will; or will what you want to become when what you can is not expedient to your well-being. The lamentation of all scholars, artists, philosophers, and writers is what I speak of: the starving yet happy poet or the depressed (though financially stable) worker bee. I don't see this as a false dichotomy; I see it as the state of reality. Push off the old ways of our forefathers, and affirm modernity with all its pangs of the mortal coil. To live true to yourself is the only way one can live. Either decision you make, Joseph, will end with regret, just as Socrates said regarding marriage.
How about this, to avoid turning this topic into another book: finish editing your philosophical dialogue after compiling your book of quotations, brush up on your accounting knowledge, and go experience life a little. I know your bookish nature prevents you from wanting to make what seems to you hasty decisions that may upend your life; but you won’t know any other way, Joseph. “But what about my planned encyclopedia,” I hear you say; let it gnaw at the back of your mind, that will only make its progress that much more enjoyable. You never worked a day in your life; if your college experience is anything to go off of, you’ll really enjoy the first six months, then slowly dread the next six, but after that, it should be endurable, having already experienced the worst of what may come. Who knows, you may actually love it so much that you’ll never desire anything further. The point is that you don’t know until you experience it. You absorbed so much from wisdom traditions, holy books, spiritual texts, moralists, and philosophers; you, of all people, know what you need to do, yet you’d rather sit here, moping, scribbling forlornly, in permanent contemplation rather than action. For all your deep, scholarly interests, you know not the first thing of actual life. This is, without question, an area that can only be learned through experience.
As great, life-affirming, and true as the aphorisms of Nietzsche or Montaigne are; as agreeable as Pascal’s thoughts are; or as inspirational and meritorious as Emerson’s sentences are to you—you will never know what you can become unless you take action into your own hands and will a life for yourself. There will be changes and bumps along the way, no doubt, which may make you regret taking action in the first place; but such is life. Do as Da Vinci preached: let experience be your mistress in all unknowns, as she was to all those greats who came before you. No amount of erudition or study will ever completely prepare you for the real world. Take life day by day, resolve to be a better person each day, maintain consistency, never compromise your health or mental well-being for any occupation, and ignore the jeers of the senseless multitude. The rest of life’s principles shall be picked up as you experience more of the world. That is all you need to know, Joseph. Stay strong, and good luck out there.
However, I should have been more explicit about what I actually want out of this journal. I wish to record here the thoughts that come to mind—those fleeting moments of inspiration that seem to synthesize entire books into a single sentence. Such is the wild power of the unconscious mind. I am personally quite absent-minded, never actually ruminating on anything, despite what my somber, rather depressed and disconnected, countenance may reveal. I wish I had the power of concentration to build my thoughts into beautiful edifices; instead, they seem to languish in my mind and require actual thought to progress. My thoughts arise spontaneously, in flashes of brilliance that leave as quickly as they come. This is why I have this journal: so that I may always have a page at hand to capture my thoughts upon.
I hope, too, that in writing down my moments of inspiration, they may collectively build into a series of witty, aphoristic sayings that could someday form their own independent book. Each good sentence, worthy of being called an aphorism, shall be underlined, preparing it for compilation when that day comes. I want my journal to resemble Emerson's, which, having read what he penned in his youth (1820, at 17 years old), has convinced me that he was a natural expounder of subtleties, a prodigy of life, with a supreme intellect that complemented his voracious reading. He had the best taste in literature—a kind of walking encyclopedia of opinions and sentiments from history’s greatest thinkers. Like Erasmus, Grotius, and Hegel before him, Emerson traversed the whole world of genius and became intimately acquainted with a universe of facts, molding him into one of America's greatest writers and a renowned life philosopher worldwide.
That is what I wish this to be: a place to scribble with complete confidence in my own person; for should another's eye peruse this mess of ink, they will surely find themselves in an abyss that screams at them, "You're not perfect!" Neither am I, and so too are my thoughts; yet such confusion will you find yourself steeped in that you might as well leave while you still can. I can assure you, my world is not meant for leisurely consumption but to be pitied and reflected upon, all in the hope, dear reader, that you may come out of it a more prepared person, ready to face life head-on at a moment’s notice. Let my thoughts and idle ideas be placed here—an investment whose interest yields the highest return for those eager and hungry for my personal platitudes and convictions.
As the author of my own thoughts, it is rather strange to write in the first person while occasionally doing so in the third, but such shifts can't be avoided when writing for oneself and others simultaneously. Let my writings come to me as my thoughts come, in a flash that holds the reader’s attention indefinitely. Let the tension build as I progress, and allow my flow to be like the ocean: at times calm, at others violent. As my experiences dictate, so too does my thought process; but how often do we feel like peasants commanded by a malevolent dictator—our own brain? It would be nice to control it, to seek it out and demand mutual assistance, but it is under no obligation to follow us; rather, it freely does as it wishes, and we merely follow along, like a ball on a pulled string.
But I have said enough about what I want from this journal. Allow the spontaneous flow of words, half-jumbled nonsense, to be made visible for all posterity.