To extend the above concept and generate a tool for self-improvement, we will generalize: Purpose is found through clarity. To live more purposefully, then, one must live more clearly... more precisely... more directly. Conversely, we possess a clearer understanding of what we need to do to remain on course only once we've established a sense of purpose. The clarity-of-purpose mentality is thus a self-perpetuating system of action, both generating and fueled by precision. It motivates us to cut to the chase, assert ourselves, and go for what we want. But the first step to accomplishing these goals involves clarity, for we cannot truly achieve them without knowing who we are and what we want.

You asked if I was feeling.
I couldn't tell you.
I was trying not to cry.

Typing this now renders me a hypocrite, but you wouldn't tell me, and I couldn't tell you, and I guess I just wanted to let you know that is how we are.

There's a new friend-networking site on the block, and his name is Orkut. I spent most of this evening hanging out with Orkut, inviting practically everyone I ever knew to join in on the fun. This exercise reminded me that none of my pre-college friends seem to have any web presence whatsoever. I'd use offline networking to catch up with them, but then what's the point of the Internet even existing?!?

The Janet Jackson Super Bowl breast fiasco was the talk of the office today. Large, full-color images of the sweaty pair of now-infamous pop stars (Justin Timberlake being Miss Jackson's accomplice) were splashed across front pages worldwide. If Janet wanted publicity, she got it. But it's how she went about getting the attention that is sad. If you're a porn star, go ahead and flash a breast to start buzz about your latest project. But if you're a pop star, you should be flashing your pop. (I trust that the point of this rant will assist you in interpreting that correctly.)

The day's other example of the music industry's unfortunate obsession with image was an ad I had to evaluate at work. One of the three lines of text selling Britney Spears CDs read "Come see her music." Come SEE her music. Well, at least a few people are aware of how it works. It's just a shame that the mindless (or subservient) masses support this state of the image industry. Did I just say "image?" I meant "music." My bad.

Believing that some notes had fallen from my pocket earlier that day, I used my bike light to search a driveway for a folded page of uncertain importance at 1:30 in the morning. I instantly regretted making such a dramatic statement, as it was ambiguous enough to have been misinterpreted in a handful of potentially concerning ways. But I was too tired and angry to explain myself. It wasn't until this morning that I was ready to think about what I had said.

To clarify, there are MANY reasons I don't kill myself... the next Frou Frou album, for example. But (more) seriously, I don't take notes to keep myself sane, and losing any would only leave me momentarily bummed, not suicidal. Still, wanting to identify in which interpretation of my comment resides some truth, I wondered, "What would inspire me to consider suicide?"

If I learned that I would never again be allowed to record my thoughts or ideas, suicide would likely cross my mind. Why? I'm not sure... I love ideas. Maybe because some are seeds for action. Maybe because some preserve the wit I enjoy in myself and others. Maybe because some are evidence of self-progress...

I feel that a compilation of the things I note would paint an accurate picture of me. Perhaps that makes me attribute a sense of identity to my notes. If I believe that they capture my essence, my spirit, and my evolution, then dropping a sheet of paper could easily equate to losing some of my definition. But what's so important about definition?

Good question. I'm not consciously in search of definition. I don't wake up each morning scheming how I will dig up the next nugget of self-understanding by day's end. But I do believe that that is a universal desire: an understanding of one's self... an identity. So, while I'm not constantly searching for me, I do enjoy each opportunity to explore myself. Case in point: this blog entry.

So, maybe it's merely a hobby - one about which I'm passionate. That would explain why I hate losing my notes, but wouldn't kill myself over it. But doesn't reducing it to a hobby cast doubt on my claim that I'd consider suicide if I couldn't record any of my thoughts or ideas? No. If a tree falls in a forest and nothing records its sound, did I exist at all?