It seems that science, history, psychology, and even magic are based on the employment of inductive logic.  Due to the one-way flow of time—from past to present to future—we can examine experiments, historical anecdotes, behavioral anecdotes, or arcane rituals to see whether or not they can be employed as useful tools, or at least draw a conclusion which can guide our efforts.  To cut through the ambiguity/flavors/quirks behind all of these methods/approaches, I like to ask one question:

Is it effective or not?

I believe this takes all the formality, all the pomp and circumstance, all the navel-gazing, and all the woo-woo right out of it—allowing me to navigate all methods, all styles, and all forms of thinking in order to address any given context.

(The next question would be:  “What’s the MOST effective?”  And between these two questions, I think, arises the concept of strategy)

It seems that one of the greatest advantages we have as humans is the ability to question ourselves—to test our own position for validity and strength, to continually refine and sharpen it, or abandon it altogether in favor of a stronger stance.  We don’t need to be purely reactive, as most animals seem to be.  We can be driven by something other than pain, or the harsh forces of evolution.

This assertion requires the existence of free will.  If such a thing exists, then it seems to be wasted in many cases; most people seem to only be willing to change in the face of extreme pain.

I think this might be the essence of strategy, only extrapolated onto an existential scale.

Although it is natural and comforting to think of certain things as objective and absolute, I have been baffled on many occasions by peoples’ behavior, leading me to realize that even though I’m sure of what I’ve seen, someone else might have perceived it differently.

That’s why I think functionality is so important; while people can argue philosophy or religion all day, they seem to shut their mouths when they see something works, ESPECIALLY if it causes them pain, or gives them some kind of benefit.

In the scope of human endeavor, everything seems to be a mirror.  I mirror my past experiences and programming, as well as my present needs and my future aspirations.  The environment, if I assess it correctly, seems to mirror my weaknesses and strengths, and give me clues as to what opportunities I can use to advance, or what faults I need to fix.

Trouble seems to arise when I flee from my reflection (especially if it’s unpleasant; when it’s gotten to the point where I can’t stand to look at myself, that means I’ve ignored my problems for far too long)  I strive to keep in mind that this mirror image—or reciprocated data, if you will—was never my enemy; that it was simply life’s way of letting me know where I currently stand.

One of the quickest ways to build consensus and vanquish pettiness is by embodying the time-honored basics:  discipline, strategy, and the willingness to consider all sides.  Over time, these qualities propagate functionality.  And functionality—as we all know from those stories where the hero stifles tribalism and vindictiveness through salient action—leads to effectiveness, which has the marvelous trait of cutting through confusion and simplifying the situation.

The clarity to assess by merit, the acumen to deduce a sound strategy, and the proactiveness/discipline to execute are simple things…but they aren’t easy.

I think if someone manages to do these things on a consistent basis, they maximize their chances of success over time, and others will tend to see them as a rare, irreplaceable gem.

I used to turn my nose up at nuance and complexity; I used to believe there was some inherent superiority in assigning a blanket label to a specific experience, and that delving into it would steal its magic and render it into a dead, logic-bound husk.

Now, however, I see that it’s the exact opposite.  As I delve further into nuance, I can’t help but marvel at the maps of causality that rise around all phenomena—from human beauty to quantum physics.  I find myself humbled and awed by the infinite unfolding of countless variables—of how myriad implications dance across my perception, hinting that everything I sense is part of some giant game of limitless possibility.

Every day, my fingers pass by a formation of symbols that can craft weapons, worlds, and wonders.  A grouping of symbols that, when properly arranged, reach into peoples’ minds and play their hearts like finely tuned instruments.

So for me, the question isn’t:  “How can you write?”  It’s:  “How could I NOT?”

The core of me seems to demand that I consistently leave behind those musty, comfortable husks of identity that I grow time and again as the years pass by.

It may not be pleasant—or easy—but it always seems to bring me peace.