Ink and Punctuation
I wrote once that everything moves in circles. That is, life, and the components we recognize as living entities, all those things that bind together to comprise that which is living-- existence itself, the universe; it is all one big circular sweep, the way things develop and then often return to an infantile state, curled in fetal position. Life to death to life. Rinse and repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Now, not so much. I mean, it isn't that I've fallen out of love with my circular theory. But, I've become cynical, and rather than view it as a pulsing circular beauty, it's more or less a giant inkblot. Or, at least, it appears that way. In truth, I don't think there's any real form to existence at all. It's an idea. And, ideas are always in motion.
Earlier, I wrote that I'd been run dry, and hoped that my blank canvas of a sense of self this morning woke up painted wild from my subconscious workings. It didn't happen. I woke up tangled in blues, lost in the cobwebs, lonely, sad.
The world doesn't go where you want it. You can't change it. You're simply a part of a living, breathing entity, and the best you can hope for is to find where you are in the midst of it, and manipulate the pieces around you if they're not what you dreamed they'd be. There is a sense of being in control, and a sense of satisfaction that comes with it. There is the illusion of a butterfly effect. But, that requires a static world, where the end to the sentence is already defined before it's been written. I think the beauty is in the chaotic nature of existence. Even after the sentence is written, after all, there is still the interpretation of it, and then those sentences that are to follow.
I felt so empty I could have melted into the wall this afternoon. It occurred to me that it has been 8 months since I was born again. Not a religious rebirth, I should add. Or, maybe it was. I don't know. But, whatever forces intervened, whatever butterfly manipulated that ugly fate, I was not murdered that day. It feels sometimes like I'm drifting, like maybe I'm the butterfly, and that fate was mine to be had. There is no full swing. Or, maybe that IS the full swing. Birth to death to rebirth. Rinse and repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
There are ghosts around every corner to remind us of what has been. And, then, there are the butterflies. They remind us of what is, and what could be.
The inkblot has rays and beams that stretch out like bony fingers into the heavens. But, the ink travels across the paper like a wave that ripples outward around a dropped pebble in the ocean. Perhaps it starts as a circle, and then the elements it encounters along the way manipulate its fate, until it is born again in another form.
Now, not so much. I mean, it isn't that I've fallen out of love with my circular theory. But, I've become cynical, and rather than view it as a pulsing circular beauty, it's more or less a giant inkblot. Or, at least, it appears that way. In truth, I don't think there's any real form to existence at all. It's an idea. And, ideas are always in motion.
Earlier, I wrote that I'd been run dry, and hoped that my blank canvas of a sense of self this morning woke up painted wild from my subconscious workings. It didn't happen. I woke up tangled in blues, lost in the cobwebs, lonely, sad.
The world doesn't go where you want it. You can't change it. You're simply a part of a living, breathing entity, and the best you can hope for is to find where you are in the midst of it, and manipulate the pieces around you if they're not what you dreamed they'd be. There is a sense of being in control, and a sense of satisfaction that comes with it. There is the illusion of a butterfly effect. But, that requires a static world, where the end to the sentence is already defined before it's been written. I think the beauty is in the chaotic nature of existence. Even after the sentence is written, after all, there is still the interpretation of it, and then those sentences that are to follow.
I felt so empty I could have melted into the wall this afternoon. It occurred to me that it has been 8 months since I was born again. Not a religious rebirth, I should add. Or, maybe it was. I don't know. But, whatever forces intervened, whatever butterfly manipulated that ugly fate, I was not murdered that day. It feels sometimes like I'm drifting, like maybe I'm the butterfly, and that fate was mine to be had. There is no full swing. Or, maybe that IS the full swing. Birth to death to rebirth. Rinse and repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
There are ghosts around every corner to remind us of what has been. And, then, there are the butterflies. They remind us of what is, and what could be.
The inkblot has rays and beams that stretch out like bony fingers into the heavens. But, the ink travels across the paper like a wave that ripples outward around a dropped pebble in the ocean. Perhaps it starts as a circle, and then the elements it encounters along the way manipulate its fate, until it is born again in another form.