We all work to stay busy and stay busy to work, when the weather outside and the demands of the world are what tear us apart from our dreams. Even when there is nothing to write about- no birds singing, no teardrops falling or stories to watch on the television- there's still something inside that urges us forward. Maybe it's fear, fear of stopping, fear of what stopping would do to us. Fear of stagnation, death, the darkness.
Maybe it's only fear that keeps us moving forward. We've deluded ourselves with this idea that it is hope from which we feed, when perhaps it is really just the fear or being hopeless. There is nothing which we cannot fear and there is nothing for which we can truly hope- besides the sanctity and preservation of our own mental and physical bodies. But hope is fear is hope and fear is all that exists.
The blank planet is rustling mindlessly to the tune of an unheard drum. The sound of exhalation and completion far eluding us in what we consider to be the masterpieces of life. A masterpiece is merely something that surpasses other pieces. We are all judging ourselves, our work, our lives against mediocrity, there is no standard but the ones we set for ourselves based on our experiences and our environment. A flawed environment would then produce a flawed being, and who can develop or exist in anything not flawed? There is excitement which punctures these moments of fear and hopelessness, excitement for the fact that maybe this mundane existence is enough. Maybe this is just a dream, but it is a dream in which we must live, and that has to be enough.
Somewhere between life and death, hope and fear, flaws and perfection- we must live and somehow find not only sustenance of body but also satisfaction of mind. How can we be truly happy in a flawed system, when we must live in the grey? How can we be truly happy when we cannot create color- when color goes against everything this world purports? How long will it take for our minds to understand, for our bodies to wither into nothing and realize that is all there has been all along? A dream of peace is merely a delusion of hope which conflicts with the reality of fear, pain, and death. Peace and love are attainable only if we are not distracted (as I just was) by the trivialities of a lifeless, loveless system.
I can't do it, we can't do it, but we must. There is nowhere but up and up is down and down is all around us. The sky weeps and the trees grow from their nurturing tears. The same vein which carved a well for sorrow also carves the well for joy. Isn't it really the case that yes and no, up and down, are irrelevant- that all existent in this world IS the grey- the in between, the NOW? The present as we know it is the only moment, but it is also the past and future for every moment is passed and about to pass. Spontaneity and the ground shakes. Irreverence and the world quakes. We are trapped in a system and yet it is this system that allows us to break it. If we have nothing to struggle against; what would be the point? If there were no down there would be no up, and without any perception of down there is nothing to hold inside ourselves but a stagnant belief in moderation.
Moderation in life is what we all strive for, and yet it is those moments of exceptional pain and joy that define our lives. It is those memories we truly remember. Yet, if we seek to only make each moment exceptional, there is no center to compare these instances to. There must be moderation peaked with pain, with joy, in order for there to be any stability in ourselves and in this world. There cannot be a world in which everything good and bad exists all the time, and yet that seems to be the world we live in.
Offspring of fear and pain, hope and joy, we are all striving to find balance punctuated by self fulfillment in whatever form that might take. It takes me long and hard moments of thought to even imagine that fulfillment might be possible, yet stagnation is impossible for that would end simply in darkness. And in a world of darkness, we must fight and continue to create color.
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