Burn the sky by ~bast-86 on deviantART
Life is a behemoth, but oft is it in the little things that we find meaning: the shared smile between you and the person behind the counter you bought your food from; the 'thank you's' exchanged unexpectedly; the well wish of the elder you helped cross the road; the company of reunited friends; the good-feeling of teamwork between unlikely parties; a confession of love; a profession of faith; the unexpected hug from a father you rarely see; the surprise encouragement from the mother who almost always saw your worst first, for your own sake; the despair of the knowledge of your father's infidelity; the words of comfort from the unexpected friend; being on the receiving end of empathy - something you've forgotten after only giving it for quite some time; the oblivion of getting drunk; the catharsis from release; the ruefulness birthed by the hang-over; all. the. unexpected. things. It is in these stolen moments where we find that our quest still has hope, that the quest becomes seemingly less cruel. That kinder realities seem within reach.
-11February 3, 2011
I was struggling to finish the sequel to The Grey Road earlier, but I failed, miserably. Maybe it's not yet time for the sequel to find itself woven in words. There were just a lot of things happening at once: music, random musings, conversations, noise. It was truly a sensory overload, not because I lost consciousness in the process, but because I kept getting tiny ideas that while not necessarily anathemas of each other, were all divergent and proved themselves quite a challenge against my abilities to put together something coherent. I didn't lose, actually. In fact, I managed to lengthen the narrative by a few paragraphs. I just wasn't able to pull it off in the end. I blame one particular idea that slowly gnawed at me until it bloated itself up into a gargantuan mass of an epiphany: all the things I did for Art's sake were actually my attempts to capture the moments like ones I wrote of in 11. Through my own ways, I want to freeze these things in stasis - this was my way of immersing myself in these moments, and affirm and actualize and spur to loftier heights my own life and all my creative impetus and inspiration. I do think it is a bit perverse, given that I have this thing for doing the same towards some of my lowest lows: until recently, I kept several verbose letters brimming with self-depreciation. They are gone now, a choice I had to make.
Why though, do I do these things? The answer is simple: I keep them as reminders of my ability to feel such immense emotions. They are mementos. I cherish a lot of memories: the good, the bad, the ugly, the elating. I see Art as a means to capture the beauty of the things around me, a means to make tangible memories of beauty, of life, of the world, if you may.
Which reminds me, for quite a few years now, I've realized my greatest fear: forgetting and losing my identity and the memories I hold of the people and the things around me. I fear forgetting everything. I fear the most to become a helpless blank slate without a means to fill the void.