Stream of consciousness

The trouble with too much imagination is that it is bound to take you further than reality and therefore there is always a painful crashing down period.

I went to see the new batman yesterday. It’s hard to believe that heath ledger who played an amazing Jocker, is dead. That such talent killed itself, just like that, and all the world has left is one last breathtaking performance immortalised on screen.

There is something about feeling too much or being so sensitive, somehow, that every simple beauty or glimpse of what is hardly ever noticed becomes an epiphany of some sort, yet pain is as much emplified for no logical reason. As feelings keep burning lungs and spirit the mind grows weary and a mental torpor slowly eases its way through the body itself until the light is so faint that you stagger down the well you knew was there all along, but you can no longer avoid it. 

There is so much beauty through the pain of living that it is bound to kill a spirit in its bud when one dares to gaze at such spendor for too long. Written words are a painter’s brush forming infinite combinations of colors to mirror the hues of rain and sunlight. Alone they are little more than shadows of what they ought to become. Together suddenly the world is set alight and there are no limits. These days words seem to flow out of my hands and I watch the threads of thought slide along those lines without even knowing whether it is really me writing or something beyond my own self already. When one achieves greatness of any kind, does it mean the soul must have gone to other shores where only splendor and perfection prevail?

 Like a vessel the body translates or convey what little can be from those unphasomable shores and withers slowly under the strain, much like the one who one day built wings so he could reach the sun.

But what do I know? What am I? If there is but one thing I am aware of it is how tiny my body is amidst the ocean of life. But my mind? How far does it stretch? How far can one venture and be certain that it is not in fact an illusion of infinity? What if what I saw for infinity was only a trick of the light too bright and I kept flying in circles? Who would warn me? Who would even notice?

Sorrow tires me yet my mind feeds off it. The contradiction is again sublime. If I was made of words I would want to be a poem.

Why do I keep writing even though the writing itself is far from perfect? Because the process is the closest one can get to their own sense of perfect, which is always subjective in its very nature. Yes, of course the notion of perfection is subjective... The process of creating new lives, no matter how fictional, awakens a new lease of hope and opens the mind’s window to let your inner eye wander as free as can ever be. And so it is that with every page of any story I feel more of a sense of being alive than reality could ever grant me. But then there are the eyes to see what is real before you and life as it is is rarely more than one long cliche after the next. 

That’s why I used to love watching movies or read fantasy stories. They would open my inner window, you see. Throughout my early years this was enough for me to revel in my own little worlds but then as I grew older I was forced to stare reality in the face and that tiny window was no longer enough. Hanging onto it as I grow old now would blur the fine line between reason and folly, I suppose. As long as I find the strength to question myself I cannot be so bad. The day I take my own word for anything I will know that reason is morphing into something much darker, a shade closer to nothingness, perhaps.