I have not indulged in writing in so long... I've tried to use it to cope, but it became the method of expelling... expelling to destroy. I am unsure if it's a result of gaining substance and solid ground under me or the jazz on the radio - making me long for those endless hours at a coffee shop : alternately reading and writing, enveloped and saturated with the smells of coffee, pastries, and yes, sunlight filtered through panes of glass, with its playful dynamic, dancing with the cool dark and its rich upholstery.
I'd often thought in times of great turmoil and great joys, that I'd like for someone to know of my life. It's no exceptional life, but it's my life; something I rarely speak about, even to those who know me best. I've been reading a number of memoirs: novels or short stories about amazing or moving events - the things that made deep impressions; how they were neither good nor bad situations in the end, but both; they were something that disrupted monotony - a little turbulence to recolor the atmosphere; a mess to force one to repaint their inner walls which helped to then reconcile the inner world with the outer universe.
I cannot say when my life began. I like to avoid definitions; so defining everything that could be meant by "life", I won't exclude. I can say that my living has included a series of several deaths: undoings, little oblivions, difficult transitions... you get the idea. My existence, personally, is quite vexing. In association to Judeo-Christian norms: one may say that I have an old soul. But, were that it were entirely of human experience, I'm convinced I would've been much more proficient in understanding "being human." My earliest ability to reconcile my physical existence was the conjecture that I was something - not an "angel", but something watching, watching these humans and getting rather perturbed at how they muck up such simple things to create vast, deadly, emotional dramas that never cease, and for what? Here comes, peeking over my shoulder, the ruling element of the universe (God, et al), and says, "so, you think you could do better?" Oh, it's on, God. I'm comfortably certain that I am quite the amusement for It - I imagine several smirks and head-shaking being done at my expense.
I am a living oxymoron, occupying both poles in almost every degree simultaneously. It becomes an art form to develop any semblance of consistency in opinions, sentiments, actions - luckily I realized early to drop several gender-based pretenses in order to comply with what I knew to be more relevant. I am 8 years old, and I am 80: too young for shame, and too old to care; too young to be bitter and conditioned, but old and wizened from past bitterness, too old to care about appropriateness; young enough to have superhero hopes and dreams, always seeing the world in new and beautiful lights, but old enough to see a world of life behind me and the futility of it all.
Engine Art & Funcion (Finally)
10 years ago
