junk
It seems throughout all our lives we seek that little grain of perfection, tripping over our feet at the very glimpse of it in the figurative distance. That’s when one first realizes how incomplete he has been, for the first time feeling the vastness of the emptiness inside. And then, when you can feel that perfection on the tips of your fingers… One single blink, and I was slipping over the edge of my orderly little world, falling like never before into the abyss of utter chaos.
With a world already broken down to its particles, that fall gave me a sense of completeness that was simply out of place. Ripping me apart, that proverbial grain of stardust gave me a freedom I had never expected to find in the prison of my own reputation and abilities. In pieces I was more myself that when said pieces were barely held together by the thread of fragile self-awareness.
And in the immeasurable ocean of chaos I found a little island of safety. Or maybe I just finally came to understand the subtle logic of it weaving together the patterns of everything. Chaos was what made me myself, flowing through my veins it bound what was left to that emptiness and yearning for perfection that was in the core of my being. And chaos gives birth to emotions, more lively and powerful that anything; the heartbeat of life, a steady pulse beneath the plain shell of simply existing.
To write about that flow in the streams of time, different every time yet so alike, can be a curse or a blessing. And that burning shard of chaos inside is what gives it its meaning. If I was now to let go of everything, I would still be holding it in my hand, for once touched by that brighter, warmer side of the world, you carry it inside you for a whole eternity. Bound to the world as it is bound to you. Indistinguishable.
With a world already broken down to its particles, that fall gave me a sense of completeness that was simply out of place. Ripping me apart, that proverbial grain of stardust gave me a freedom I had never expected to find in the prison of my own reputation and abilities. In pieces I was more myself that when said pieces were barely held together by the thread of fragile self-awareness.
And in the immeasurable ocean of chaos I found a little island of safety. Or maybe I just finally came to understand the subtle logic of it weaving together the patterns of everything. Chaos was what made me myself, flowing through my veins it bound what was left to that emptiness and yearning for perfection that was in the core of my being. And chaos gives birth to emotions, more lively and powerful that anything; the heartbeat of life, a steady pulse beneath the plain shell of simply existing.
To write about that flow in the streams of time, different every time yet so alike, can be a curse or a blessing. And that burning shard of chaos inside is what gives it its meaning. If I was now to let go of everything, I would still be holding it in my hand, for once touched by that brighter, warmer side of the world, you carry it inside you for a whole eternity. Bound to the world as it is bound to you. Indistinguishable.