Tuesday, 18 September 2012

A Subject on Which Already Has Been Spoken by Every Man Born of Woman

To lose what has already been lost—more biting and cruel than the first losing. What pain! And how to say it? Ever harder that scourge upon which others look as not a scourge; no more than the bump in a road cobbled so dreadfully together it may almost be unnoticed from the others. The secrecy, the great cover-up of pain to avoid embarrassment or shame, or extricate oneself from the possibility of unwanted conversation leads to the denying of all that can be said to define an individual. In this does circumstance beg a great betrayal, brother between brother, even those closer in commune than any bond of blood.

It could be many subjects upon which I discourse; I ponder the wisdom of full disclosure, lest any personal relevance to my words be stolen through detailed description, alienating those outside this coterie of tears and unvented frustration.

Has this—or many other writings—been but a show of vanity? We seek the same thing, those of us in any pain with a desire to soil the internet with our emotions; as with any true writer, pride does not allow the notion that what is written with these hands could resemble the thoughts of others—this must be new, bold, and compelling. And yet, does it matter how it is written? Shall I speak with great flames of fire, whilst my words yet stem from the same heart that beats within the breast of the world's billions, and have within me that great stench of gall to say, 'Behold, this is worth the reading, for it is pleasant to the ears;' was it written so that those who understand it can claim intelligence for their store of words? Is not the palette of our heart the same as every other?

What merit to say a thing better when one says the same in either case? Might I as well have said, 'I am sad to have lost something I cared about and I can't tell anyone about it because they won't understand because it's not something other people find important'? Indeed; yet had I done so, I would have been scoffed at by self-made intellectuals who wish to be stimulated within their squirming brains and find themselves the great snobs of emotion, so that it must be dressed in finery before it becomes worthy of attention. Are we so guilty of finding ourselves at par with every other man and woman that we must cloak the way we feel before others are willing to listen and say, 'Yes, I felt that too'?

So fearful are we of being counted human that we look upon those who own the same feelings that affect us all as the simple minded, those lacking in class so as to avoid even the pretence of being relatable. In nothing has the world changed since those days when men were openly regarded as of unequal status; but perhaps there are more grounds for inequality based on fortune and birth than the inventions of the mind that would say, 'I am set apart by my own decision, that I wish to be discounted from the folk who walk the earth on two legs and do not even pretend that they fly.'

Saturday, 15 September 2012

Momentum

Hurrah! Momentum arrives, spurred on by who knows what, and through this simple tool comes much. It could goad me to beginning a book, or maintaining a schedule, or working out regularly—all the things people use momentum for, and the subject most bloggers have great care in discussing.

Why do we all think our lives are so individual that we feel the need to write about the precise same things as everyone else—as if they are discoveries we have given to mankind?

Self-absorption blinds us to the fact that more than likely, most people reading our small words—and most people full stop, in fact—have experienced the vast majority of anything we report with that great pride of discovery. To be forthright, any human who has the gall to claim discovery of anything, big or small, needs to open his eyes to his own size and stature; perhaps that he could be discoverer of, though even there, should this be a habit noticeable to friends and colleagues, he has already shown this shrunken tendency by the odious nature of what I would unforgivingly call a disease.

Friday, 14 September 2012

The Mustard Seed

Here I sit, with my Keep Calm cup of thistle tea, made from the comfort of my own desk, with my window overlooking the campus, the smell of fresh baked goods coming up the stairs from the café below me; the only disturbances are the frequent sounds of traffic crossing the street in front of me, and the ding-dong notification of new emails.

The wind is twisting the leaves of the alder tree outside; the clouds are low and dark, the music (most carefully selected) is soothing. My room is clean and all unpacked; in front of me stands the 1400 page history volume on Europe's history. My fingers smell like popcorn; I made some (in the microwave, of course), but it burned. Trust these British microwaves to do a thing like that.

I exist in a world of itself here, in this moment; I rest in the trust afforded by the time of now. But already the tea has gone bitter; the music jars my ears, and my eyes droop from weariness and an over-thrifty method of using contact lenses. The wind is biting, and the rain will come soon. I can afford the luxury of being here only because I have no work in university or job in town.

I am writing, because I said I would; because I force myself to stick to an arbitrary goal of which I have no complete proof it is even beneficial. Merrily we plod along. My spirits are high; my brain function is not.