subtext
Fumbling. Trying not to fall. But sometimes we do fall.
Yes, we fall. We slip on ice and dislocate, say, the pinky finger of the left hand.
We fumble through life. Sometimes we stumble. We trip. We look the fool. But we do the best we can with what we have and with what we can salvage. Or what we find, no matter how unexpected. The unexpected can be salvation - what you always wanted. But often unexpected is when everything seems to crash down at once. We find ourselves in predicaments and situations that we don't necessarily desire. Between the good times, the glow of love or the warmth of friends, there is the struggle of life. We hold close those we trust and love - those who will always be there, no matter what.
Work. Some are fortunate to have a career they enjoy. Others have jobs of which they might not be particularly enamored, but is a necessity. Others, well, they don't want to work at all. It might not be out of laziness (though often it is), but because corporate servitude isn't remotely near the top if any list of personal priorities. But we work, and we pay the bills, keep food in our bellies, and we survive.
Goals. Not everyone has lofty goals for themselves, and there is no foul in that. Sometimes love and family and a circle of friends is enough. And perhaps it should be. Others strive for achievement - those who know what they want. The goal of professional success is noble. As long as a person stays true to the ideal, and does not damage anyone else in the process of attaining their goal, then there should be no question but to act. It can take time, so much time, but to give up truly, as has been stated in theatrical fashion by others, is to die. At least partially. To wither and lose part of yourself.
And sometimes, along the way on this path of life, we do lose those pieces of ourselves. We sacrifice belief, reason, love. We can succumb to doubt and fear and empty vitriol. There is the possibility that the reasons might be beyond our control. But if they are conscious choices, then we have to answer to our reflection and the accusation, disappointment, and guilt looking back. Occasionally we have to swallow that pride and concede. We have to realize our fumbles, our errors. And not just simply... give up.
Maybe that's why I can never give up on the written word. I could never not read, not have a book in my hand, or waiting by my bedside. It's why I could never not write. It would be too much to bear. Constant self-flagellation or maintaining grudges or clinging to spite are far from beneficial or gratifying. They're instruments of self-destruction and they ostracize what truly matters. I know this and I've been guilty of these shortcomings. They kill you inside and can damage those around you, even those you ardently profess to love. You don't alienate and exile those who care about you, whom you profess to care about. Where is the sense and love in that?
Words are a part of what makes me the person I am. Like emotion, sometimes I am overwhelmed and consumed. Unglued. Often I have to write for the release. Writing acts as a form of self-induced therapy. Some might tag me as a bit of a lunatic (a generally good-hearted lunatic, mind you), so extracting the words from my brain and putting them down in some kind of coherent form helps to preserve a semblance of sanity. No, I could never eschew or forfeit words. Even if no one else ever read them, or enjoyed them - found meaning in them - I would always be pounding the keys or scrawling across paper, regardless.
But my writing has meant something to some people over time. And no, I'm not talking about paying freelance work, which means something to an editor because I am under a deadline. Sure, that merits importance, but it's the words I write that... help me. More so, it's the people who care about my words that save me (hmm, a bit dramatic). Sure, some of these people I might never know or meet. But I cherish those who have told me that they found a sense of... beauty... in my words. Is beauty even the right word? Maybe the proper word actually escapes me. But as long as the words stir something, it doesn't matter if it's the beautiful Princess isolated in her tower or the solitary pauper lonely in his own little apartment, both of them somewhere out there across the miles. Somehow I know that the abject, naked honesty of the word strikes something inside. "You write beautfully." What greater compliment to my words could there be?
So, with words as constant companion, I fumble through life, doing the best I can. There is the inherent desire to be a good person, to do and say the right thing. It not always a smooth process, and I certainly have a great capacity to fumble, but I try, and I also try to admit when I am wrong. People and friends come. People go. True friends stay. Love comes. It goes. True love stays, no matter the circumstances. There is an unquestioning vulnerability in love, much like so many of the words I write every day and every evening. We open up, we close ourselves off, we concede, we fight, we forgive. For many of us, on some level, we acknowledge and overcome differences and laugh at the foolishness because those differences, in the end, do not matter. It's our flesh and blood and bond and the fragility of emotion that matters. Somehow, we find a way to fumble through, not necessarily unscathed, but hopefully stronger. Love will fix any troubles? Yes, if that love is real, and strong. The stories of our lives unold across pages as they unfolds across the world.
The world and me. The words and me. My heart and me.
How does one exist for me without the other?
Yes, we fall. We slip on ice and dislocate, say, the pinky finger of the left hand.
We fumble through life. Sometimes we stumble. We trip. We look the fool. But we do the best we can with what we have and with what we can salvage. Or what we find, no matter how unexpected. The unexpected can be salvation - what you always wanted. But often unexpected is when everything seems to crash down at once. We find ourselves in predicaments and situations that we don't necessarily desire. Between the good times, the glow of love or the warmth of friends, there is the struggle of life. We hold close those we trust and love - those who will always be there, no matter what.
Work. Some are fortunate to have a career they enjoy. Others have jobs of which they might not be particularly enamored, but is a necessity. Others, well, they don't want to work at all. It might not be out of laziness (though often it is), but because corporate servitude isn't remotely near the top if any list of personal priorities. But we work, and we pay the bills, keep food in our bellies, and we survive.
Goals. Not everyone has lofty goals for themselves, and there is no foul in that. Sometimes love and family and a circle of friends is enough. And perhaps it should be. Others strive for achievement - those who know what they want. The goal of professional success is noble. As long as a person stays true to the ideal, and does not damage anyone else in the process of attaining their goal, then there should be no question but to act. It can take time, so much time, but to give up truly, as has been stated in theatrical fashion by others, is to die. At least partially. To wither and lose part of yourself.
And sometimes, along the way on this path of life, we do lose those pieces of ourselves. We sacrifice belief, reason, love. We can succumb to doubt and fear and empty vitriol. There is the possibility that the reasons might be beyond our control. But if they are conscious choices, then we have to answer to our reflection and the accusation, disappointment, and guilt looking back. Occasionally we have to swallow that pride and concede. We have to realize our fumbles, our errors. And not just simply... give up.
Maybe that's why I can never give up on the written word. I could never not read, not have a book in my hand, or waiting by my bedside. It's why I could never not write. It would be too much to bear. Constant self-flagellation or maintaining grudges or clinging to spite are far from beneficial or gratifying. They're instruments of self-destruction and they ostracize what truly matters. I know this and I've been guilty of these shortcomings. They kill you inside and can damage those around you, even those you ardently profess to love. You don't alienate and exile those who care about you, whom you profess to care about. Where is the sense and love in that?
Words are a part of what makes me the person I am. Like emotion, sometimes I am overwhelmed and consumed. Unglued. Often I have to write for the release. Writing acts as a form of self-induced therapy. Some might tag me as a bit of a lunatic (a generally good-hearted lunatic, mind you), so extracting the words from my brain and putting them down in some kind of coherent form helps to preserve a semblance of sanity. No, I could never eschew or forfeit words. Even if no one else ever read them, or enjoyed them - found meaning in them - I would always be pounding the keys or scrawling across paper, regardless.
But my writing has meant something to some people over time. And no, I'm not talking about paying freelance work, which means something to an editor because I am under a deadline. Sure, that merits importance, but it's the words I write that... help me. More so, it's the people who care about my words that save me (hmm, a bit dramatic). Sure, some of these people I might never know or meet. But I cherish those who have told me that they found a sense of... beauty... in my words. Is beauty even the right word? Maybe the proper word actually escapes me. But as long as the words stir something, it doesn't matter if it's the beautiful Princess isolated in her tower or the solitary pauper lonely in his own little apartment, both of them somewhere out there across the miles. Somehow I know that the abject, naked honesty of the word strikes something inside. "You write beautfully." What greater compliment to my words could there be?
So, with words as constant companion, I fumble through life, doing the best I can. There is the inherent desire to be a good person, to do and say the right thing. It not always a smooth process, and I certainly have a great capacity to fumble, but I try, and I also try to admit when I am wrong. People and friends come. People go. True friends stay. Love comes. It goes. True love stays, no matter the circumstances. There is an unquestioning vulnerability in love, much like so many of the words I write every day and every evening. We open up, we close ourselves off, we concede, we fight, we forgive. For many of us, on some level, we acknowledge and overcome differences and laugh at the foolishness because those differences, in the end, do not matter. It's our flesh and blood and bond and the fragility of emotion that matters. Somehow, we find a way to fumble through, not necessarily unscathed, but hopefully stronger. Love will fix any troubles? Yes, if that love is real, and strong. The stories of our lives unold across pages as they unfolds across the world.
The world and me. The words and me. My heart and me.
How does one exist for me without the other?
posted by Walls Falling at 8:25 PM
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