Considerations of an Inconsistant Diarywriter...
I've always made this little place into a kind of a personal shrine to myself. There is something about writing about my frustrations that has become a kind of a release. If I could only get my emotions out on paper(or in this case, oh so much digital ink), then it somehow could be safely out of me. Preserved, in a way, so that even as life continues and memories might fade, the moments are not lost.
And there is something about keeping those moments that has gripped me. I can't rightly explain why. To surrender anything to the flow of time feels like a personal defeat, an acknowledgment of little deaths; of memories, of emotions or feelings. Part of why I become a writer was that deep and heartfelt need to capture that instant: that fleeting bursts of yearning, the pinprick echoes of despair, or the desperate glimpses of hope. Yet there is something missing from it all.
I don't seem to record a lot of happy moments.
I do have them, don't I? What is happiness, exactly? I vaguely recall the euphoric rush of feeling loved for the first time, the sense of wonderment and perhaps most accurately, of how the colors felt more real. There has been that sense of personal triumph and victories in my professional life - I still keep some of my favorite positive reviews. The first story of mine that was generally popular, my first confirmation that I could actually write. Even now, I have plenty to bliss in, both of mundane blessings and of the extraordinary to rejoice in.
And yet the pain is more poignant. Its keen blade cuts deeper.
I wonder why. Perhaps happiness is a complex emotion, a combination of feeling security and contentment, knowing that growth is yet underway. Happiness is a building underpinned by many pillars, but pain requires only one of those pillars to be removed. And the collapse of the structure is more dramatic and sadly, exciting than the gradual building of it all.
There may be a secret in it. Perhaps, I yearn for those passionate moments. The storm of the tempest and the whorl of madness is addictive, mesmerizing and ultimately addictive.
And there's nothing wrong with it. But it needs balance.
And there is something about keeping those moments that has gripped me. I can't rightly explain why. To surrender anything to the flow of time feels like a personal defeat, an acknowledgment of little deaths; of memories, of emotions or feelings. Part of why I become a writer was that deep and heartfelt need to capture that instant: that fleeting bursts of yearning, the pinprick echoes of despair, or the desperate glimpses of hope. Yet there is something missing from it all.
I don't seem to record a lot of happy moments.
I do have them, don't I? What is happiness, exactly? I vaguely recall the euphoric rush of feeling loved for the first time, the sense of wonderment and perhaps most accurately, of how the colors felt more real. There has been that sense of personal triumph and victories in my professional life - I still keep some of my favorite positive reviews. The first story of mine that was generally popular, my first confirmation that I could actually write. Even now, I have plenty to bliss in, both of mundane blessings and of the extraordinary to rejoice in.
And yet the pain is more poignant. Its keen blade cuts deeper.
I wonder why. Perhaps happiness is a complex emotion, a combination of feeling security and contentment, knowing that growth is yet underway. Happiness is a building underpinned by many pillars, but pain requires only one of those pillars to be removed. And the collapse of the structure is more dramatic and sadly, exciting than the gradual building of it all.
There may be a secret in it. Perhaps, I yearn for those passionate moments. The storm of the tempest and the whorl of madness is addictive, mesmerizing and ultimately addictive.
And there's nothing wrong with it. But it needs balance.