there's still so much to do
i'd really like to work on coming back to life on the internet. i remember back in '97, waaay before myspace, when people my age were beginning to realize the potential we had online. having a 'webpage' wasn't just something reserved exclusively for businesses anymore. we could publish our own poetry, our thoughts, our angsty ravings, our dreams, and best of all we could be creative with it. new color schemes and daring fonts. lack of caps and bad grammar. guestbooks and being thirsty for people to sign them. link exchanges, banners, and bad poetry. remember the panic of spotting your webpage on a school computer? the fear of our parents finding out? it may all sound so silly and juvenile, but those were exciting times; there was something achingly romantic about it all.
for me, anyway.
more than just amateur self-publishing, i like to think that it emerged from our thirst for self-discovery. we live in a very spiritually shattered and frightened world that's very hazardous to identity; just as the world lives in pieces, so do we. since our own communities were failing to provide a sense of wholeness, we sought ourselves elsewhere. we found fragments of ourselves in people we would never meet.
if we had anything in common, it was this: we were fed up with bullshit. we were sick of emptiness and shallowness. we didn't feel safe in "their" world; they poisoned our beauty and laughed at our dreams. they wanted to take our souls away, and we found strength in each other. the world was dying, and we knew that there had to be something better.
(i realize that it may be innappropriate for me to drag others into my own experiences)
but that was such a long time ago. we've grown up, we've adjusted. but something feels like it's missing. it feels like there have been so many casualties along the way, and i count myself among them. although i haven't entirely lost my vision, i can see how it's been endangered by the vacuum. i call it a vacuum because the closer we get to it, the stronger the suction, and the less chance we have of survival. keeping our dreams alive is a struggle that calls for perpetual endurance.
i guess that's why i'm here, for the same reason i was here eight years ago. i'm still thirsty. i don't know if it's the healthiest thing, but i'm still thirsty.
i dare call myself a mystic, and we mystics can all agree to this: though we are not home, we are going home. those beautiful memories i have of finding true acceptance are there for a reason. sometimes those memories are all i have.
i think rilke said it best:
"oh shooting star
that fell into my eyes and through
my body-
not to forget you. to endure."
for me, anyway.
more than just amateur self-publishing, i like to think that it emerged from our thirst for self-discovery. we live in a very spiritually shattered and frightened world that's very hazardous to identity; just as the world lives in pieces, so do we. since our own communities were failing to provide a sense of wholeness, we sought ourselves elsewhere. we found fragments of ourselves in people we would never meet.
if we had anything in common, it was this: we were fed up with bullshit. we were sick of emptiness and shallowness. we didn't feel safe in "their" world; they poisoned our beauty and laughed at our dreams. they wanted to take our souls away, and we found strength in each other. the world was dying, and we knew that there had to be something better.
(i realize that it may be innappropriate for me to drag others into my own experiences)
but that was such a long time ago. we've grown up, we've adjusted. but something feels like it's missing. it feels like there have been so many casualties along the way, and i count myself among them. although i haven't entirely lost my vision, i can see how it's been endangered by the vacuum. i call it a vacuum because the closer we get to it, the stronger the suction, and the less chance we have of survival. keeping our dreams alive is a struggle that calls for perpetual endurance.
i guess that's why i'm here, for the same reason i was here eight years ago. i'm still thirsty. i don't know if it's the healthiest thing, but i'm still thirsty.
i dare call myself a mystic, and we mystics can all agree to this: though we are not home, we are going home. those beautiful memories i have of finding true acceptance are there for a reason. sometimes those memories are all i have.
i think rilke said it best:
"oh shooting star
that fell into my eyes and through
my body-
not to forget you. to endure."