There are so very many beautiful things in this world which pass us by so swiftly that we cannot even touch them, but they touch us. Then, as we turn, they are gone, and we try so hard to recover from the experience.
Words, thoughts, ideas, dreams, smells, sights, sounds, sensation.
The inferno of my mind both blazes wildly and burns steadily, in turn.
When we structure our speech from an early age, we are slowly building language about ourselves like a fortress. It protects us and cages us, we use it as a tool to communicate but in that same instant it also functions as something that masks our meaning. We are separated from the very people we wish to reach, even as we reach them. We speak, and others translate, but our translation is subtly different to theirs, so we can never truly understand each other. It is so maddening.
This is not what I meant, nor what I wanted to say. It is almost close.
Sometimes I struggle with this kind of thing. I can usually say, 'I'm hungry.' I learned that.
But if I want to truly express myself, and I don't even mean my feelings, but how I think, my thought processes, these fundamental things are unable to be expressed by words or tone of voice.
Perhaps colours would help. But there are not enough resources for showing all of the colours I would need to try and demonstrate what I want to say.
I am always aware of the crudeness of my expression. I comprehend so much, and some of it is very complex, but expressing it is almost impossible.
Dissatisfying. Vexing.
Frustrating.
Desperate.
I will not give up yet.
I yearn to be as great as I may never be able to be.
I long to be able to look at what I have written and be satisfied. Even if I say to myself; 'I need to work on it still, but it will do for now,' then that is good enough. But I cannot even say that.
A sea of inadequate, clumsy words.
I am drowning.
But that is only a momentary lapse.
After I shake my head a little, I become sensible again.
I may live in eternal longing for something, but in the end, in order to continue to exist, one must look at the everyday things and put aside one's deepest fundamental needs because that is what being imperfect is about.
Fallen creatures in a fallen world.
We scrape a living to get by, day after day.
Survival for another moment, one way or another.
I do not have the killer instinct that is so popular in movies and other media.
I am not in possession of any kind of strength or magical power like many people wish for (and sadly, I am not being melodramatic at all). I will not even waste my time going after those things.
I want something that will last forevermore.
I want to be sensible.
Part of being sensible means admitting your own weaknesses and the darkness of life.
If you can philosophically accept these things, then you may be able to survive anything.
Just take everything as it comes and let it cut right through you, then bind yourself up and carry on.
If you try to fight in this world, most likely you will be destroyed.
Even if you are the best or the strongest, there will always be others lined up ready to try and topple you. So it is not good to hold your worth to your position.
I am an embodiment of that sad lack of ambition.
Part of me screams that I am wasting my life, because I have potential to do more.
But it is ignored by the majority which states flatly, 'Potential is great but without passion and drive, it is nothing. Also, having a lot is useless if you can't help others.'
I'm partly pleased at my own lack of progress in life. A sharp, bitter laugh at the world.
But that laugh turns to a sob so quickly. Ah... no more depressing music at night...
My point is... or was, that I am torn between my sensible, logical mind, my hopeless, dark character and my philosophical abstract soul.
A truly difficult tug o' war.
Nobody is really winning so far. But nobody is losing either. Since I dislike competitivity (I think that is not a real word but hey), I am not displeased with the three-way draw so far.
