Another repost, in preparation for the end of Xanga (as we know it?) and the beginning of Xanga 2.0. I do plan on continuing on to Xanga 2.0 as of now, although what I plan on doing with my blog will be different than in the past (Something you can read about HERE)… but until then, I’m sifting through my older stuff to find posts that I thought were interesting and calling this “Best of RockOfEadie” (regardless of the quality of the actual original post).
This one may require a tad bit of context though… at the time, my layout consisted of a large stick man holding a pencil and made to look like he was specifically writing all of my blogs… I then changed briefly to a layout that just had a pencil-drawn tombstone on it for a while, and this was the first post I made under that new layout after having switched from the stick man. This is also when I changed the name of my blog from simply “eadie” to “RockOfEadie”
The original time post of this blog was July 25, 2008 11:15 AM
Title: Purpose of Life
Can we really say that our lives have a predetermined “purpose” to them. Is there really something that we were designed or intended to do? This is a commonly asked question among philosophers, and a common argument for atheism. That predetermined life is purely fictional is what has driven many great debates and discussions. Often of course, to the point that it is completely overdone. So why am I going to talk about it? Because since when have I ever approached any topic in a normal way?
One of the most common messages I get from viewers like you, is about my stick figure man on the top left corner of my blog. He hasn’t really been there for too long, but has somewhat become a trademark of my site. Although this was not really my intention, I am in no way upset by this. But many of you want to know where he comes from, what his story is, or just plain what the hell he is doing. So I now present to you, the purpose of the pencil man’s life.
I first met the pencil man many moons ago. He came to me one day in English class. I could tell that he had already walked a long, hard road. He was scrappy, slightly erased in some places, and his pencil was already well shaved to the point where there were only about four inches left. I was immediately moved by his appearance. He came to me asking for nothing, he required no favors. He simply said that he was here to help. When I asked him about his past, he simply told me that it was irrelevant. He said that while many people say that we can learn from the past, he had discovered that there is always a way to erase it. Nothing is permanent he told me, nothing is lasting. I was obviously perplexed by this, but more so, I wondered how he would be able to help me.
He then told me of his identity. He said that he was a being, both mythical and very real, both intangible, yet entirely within anybody’s grasp. His profession was in writing. He was unable to provide me with any references but I let him on board anyways. He was immediately able to help me complete all my assignments for the class. His love for fiction fueled my pieces and my grades maintained very high marks. I couldn’t believe the creativity and originality he inspired. I asked him from where he got his ideas. All he was able to tell me was that they were already there.
We worked together like this for some time, but I didn’t really feel that this was fair. The inspiration and motivation in my work wasn’t coming from me, it was coming from him. I confronted him.
Me: Every time it comes down to doing my school work, I don’t really feel that involved, it’s like you are doing all the work.
Him: This is true, I told you before though, I wouldn’t ask any favors of you, I am compelled to do this.
Me: You actually enjoy doing my work for me?
Him: Enjoy isn’t really the correct word. It would me more accurate to say that it is my purpose. You see, I am your muse, your inspiration, your thoughts. To say that I am doing all of your work is to say that you are doing your own work. I am that part of you, your mental, I am part of you.
Me (thinking to myself): That would explain why you felt so familiar the first time we met. That explains why I felt connected.
Me (to him): Then why do I feel like I’m cheating? Why is that I feel a separation from you?
Him: Well, in a sense I am separate. Whenever you are asked to write a story, you have to call on me, you have to summon my aid. See, you are just as you are, a confused person, incapable of thinking freely unless you really dig. Unless you call on me. The human imagination is a very complicated thing. It doesn’t really stem from yourself, it comes from a collection of experiences and history that isn’t really a part of you, but is instead given to you to call from. Thus you receive a sense of separation from it.
This was all too confusing. Nothing made sense, but I decided that if something feels wrong, then it probably is. I no longer asked him to help me with my assignments. My grades did start to go down a little bit, but not nearly to the level that they were at before. I felt prouder, and more accomplished. I felt more complete.
Then I started picking up blogging. I loved getting on xanga, flexing the muscles of my mind, and reading and responding to what other people wrote. It was my heroin; my thrilling, addicting, escape. I needed it, 
daily, it too became a part of me. Other people noted this, people in my life outside of xanga, they thought it wasn’t healthy, they thought it was unnatural, I didn’t care, it was comforting. I noticed however, that what I was doing lacked polish, it lacked a sense of established uniformity, it needed direction. I knew just who to turn to for help. I called him out again, and once again he unquestionably came to my aid. He was even more rugged this time around then when were first met. He wasn’t as dark, his lines were significantly fuzzier, his pencil was smaller, he looked completely used. Nonetheless, he provided his unwavering assistance, and I began to get noticed. My work showed more evidence of character, of charisma, and of direction. However, the character that they were showing wasn’t exactly my character. They were exhibiting parts of creativity that didn’t really express myself, but instead expressed what my muse intended of me. I wasn’t controlling it, I was letting it out of the cage, allowing it to run free and be myself while I sat behind the keyboard merely typing what it whispered in my ear.
Eventually, I decided to try something different. I let the muse out as I usually did, but this time, I didn’t exactly write everything it told me to, I changed things, molded them to fit me. I took the wild expressiveness that it was and caged it in. I didn’t tell it this of course. I let it assume that it was still in control, so I let it tell me what I wanted it to, but then I added my twist to it. I did this more and more until eventually I wasn’t using it at all. My work started to come more out of me. The penciled man was then perplexed, it stood on, looking over my blogs with a puzzled look, always scratching it’s head, always confused. It knew something was up. It approached me asking why the material presented wasn’t that which it had provided me with.
Him: You aren’t using my help? Why have you changed?
Me: I finally understood what you told me. I finally realized the truth. The only way to truly evolve as a writer, as an artist, is to no longer require the use of my muse. I have to gain inspiration and creativity from myself, I can’t sit here and wait for you to show up. You are unreliable, and out of control. I have to think for myself, I have to be my own motivation. This isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate what you have done. Instead, I have in a sense become you. Absorbed you.
Him: I was already you.
Me: On a physical level though. I needed to become you both physically and metaphysically. The body was the same, but the mind was separate. I have surpassed you. I have succeeded you. I have usurped you.
Him: Very well.
And that was how the conversation ended. He flipped the pencil around and began working with what was left of his eraser. He told me then that he had completed his purpose in life. The last use a person has for their muse he said, is to no longer inspire their work, but to inspire themselves. At this point, he said, he was no longer necessary. Eventually, he was completely erased. He was gone. I couldn’t help but wonder though. Had I really done what I set out to do? I wanted to free myself of the reliance on this figure, but his last words disturbed me. If his final purpose was to inspire me, and not my work, does that mean that I have now become his work? Have I cheated on the masterpiece of myself? Of all the help he willingly gave me in what I wrote, perhaps it was the very same help that he lent toward me. I had cheated myself. I used him to become him. It was all enough to make my head spin.
Whatever had just happened was irrelevant. It was as he said in the beginning, the past is in fact irrelevant. Every can be changed, he himself was unmade for the sake of my present, therefor I no longer had to worry about what had already happened, I just had to continue focussing on my now. My current. My present. My rock.
I can become my own cornerstone, my own ideal. I can express it simply by allowing it to flow through me as opposed to through an outside part of my mind, a part that was separate from my consciousness. Does this mean that my writing will be different from now on? Yes, but in only a very subtle way. Will you be able to tell? Perhaps not, so you shouldn’t be alarmed. But I will know, and I will take comfort in this. I have found my rock. Here it is.
Until next time, good luck with life.
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