I apologize in advance for how boring this post might be.
They’re just me, true to my name, rambling, pinning whatever free-floating thought I have wafting about in my mind onto paper. It will be self-indulgent and self-centered: a form of extreme navel-gazing, if you will. I just spill all of me out, minus the frills in my other posts and the desire to write relatively coherent and engaging posts with the aim to touch souls. It’s the sort of stuff I usually scribble in my diary, but with the added privilege of knowing a few people might glance at it and relate. It is simply a conversation with me – a human being, an organism, a sack of flesh, a conscious mind; a one-sided conversation, I’ll admit, but after I sit finish typing here and press post, I’ll let my imagination conjure the kind of replies you who are reading this would proffer.
It’s astounding how quickly a human soul can mature. How quickly the mind expands, bubbling and growing, as it absorbs new thoughts, ideas and concepts. I know that I am a bit of an old soul (I feel rather self-aggrandizing causing myself an old soul sometimes, as if I’m putting myself on a pedestal as a wiser-than-thou figure, but it’s the only way I can account for some of my thoughts and the inability to integrate with my fun-loving, excitable peers), and some of my posts offer glimpses of wisdom, but a year ago I was nothing like that. I was an anxious, unwise, bumbling, foolish, petty person, and now, looking back, I feel it was because my soul was trapped, and hadn’t been allowed to flourish and awaken. There was a certain wrongness that discoloured my everyday life. A year ago, I didn’t write regularly. I’ve only truly started ‘writing’ deliberately and consistently for the last six months. A year ago, I had no conception of my dreams, desires, who I was. A year ago, I was unborn.
And now, it’s like these numinous gates have swung open, flooding my soul with heavenly light and filling my mind with sweet, soaring hosannas. I’m not happy. I don’t think happiness is a default setting of mine. I’m a melancholy person by nature, as many INFPs tend to be, and quite like myself that way because it makes me feel more alive. Giddy happiness is foreign to me: my rare moments of joy are more like tiny roses puckering their petals quietly inside my heart.
I feel beauty much more powerfully; when I read a beautiful sentence in a book, tears spring to my eyes, and I feel like my whole body is made of euphoric light. But though I’m not happy, I’m less miserable. Literature, art, writing – these things have pulled away the mists from my eyes. Such enormous changes. I feel like a different person, and honestly wished I had shed my old self sooner. This has been causing me a lot of frustration. If only I had birthed my soul sooner, I could have had years of working at the craft of writing instead of wasting my time worrying about nonsensical, idiotic, meaningless things. I want to call after Time, grab hold of its hand and plead, “Wait, wait. Take me back. Please. I’ll do better.”
But maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I had to reach this age to reach my maturity. That’s okay. There’s no point in lamenting over lost time. Time is deaf. It just plods on, and you should do the same. Use the time that you have now. That’s how I reconciled myself to my lost time. To not waste the time I have now, so that my future self won’t lament the lost time I could have currently utilized. Forward, soldier. Forward. To where? Just forward. Just move.
I’ve touched upon truths. One of these is that all human beings are one. A year ago, I thought it simply was some idealistic call to rally humanity together, but now I know it’s more. It’s always more, isn’t it? Depthless. There are beings who see more than us, and the more they see is so much more than our more, yet there is still even more for them to know. Knowledge is infinite. But yes, we truly are one.
We are one entity, only we can experience life one at a time.
It’s like a great pool of watery soul matter, and we’re just the little ice crystals that form on its surface, each unique, each different, but all part of the pool.
I have closed my eyes, and imagined myself into the skin of other beings to truly feel this concept. Right now, as you read this, other eyes stare at skies, at blood, at food, at cities, at seas, at roads, at animals, at horrors, at joys, at beauty, and they’re all your eyes too, only you can only see through one pair of eyes in one lifetime. I hope this makes some measure of sense. I know it’s seems rather farfetched and abstract. Do you believe it? I do. Maybe the metaphor isn’t perfect, but I think it’s something like that. Sometimes, you just know. And when we die, we simply melt back into the pool, but we’re never truly dead: the other crystals are a part of us, it’s all one glistening entity. All of humanity is this shifting, crystalizing, rearranging and kaleidoscopic mass of soul substance. If someone had told me this a year ago, I would have stared at them with a gormless expression on my face. How quickly we grow, transmute.
This concept also changed my ideas about God and religion. I am still an atheist, but my atheism has taken on a new form. I used to declaim religion, placing it on par with fairies and unicorns, simply viewing it, in my arrogant naivety, as something which humans made up to answer the questions without answers, to act as a safety net when the time comes to leap into the arms of death. Maybe it is a little like that. Maybe a lot.
But I understand now that there are things beyond the physical and the metaphysical and science and black matter and the Big Bang. There’s a Something, some sort of force that infuses us with consciousness, allows us to create art, causes stars and galaxies to coalesce, blossom forth glittering beauty, a Something behind the clockwork of the universe and beyond, twisting its gears and keeping it moving.
Maybe that’s my idea of God. I don’t believe in some ethereal entity floating in the ether who controls my path in life and looks after me and my destiny, but I believe in this Something, and maybe that makes me a spiritual atheist. There’s a perfection, an order, a transcendence and magic to existence and life and everything that can’t simply be explained by science. Science is beautiful, but sometimes I feel that it only looks at the face of the universe, rather than plumbing its inner depths and thoughts, the dark, frothy stuff that matters. Then again, maybe it’s not about atheism or God or agnosticism, but about not thinking or believing or arguing but just experiencing. That’s all we’ve got, after all. The here and now, forever and always.
You know, I’m so silly when it comes to love. I’m ridiculous. Love is the perfect outlet for idealism, and sometimes I just close my eyes and whirl away on adorable, little romantic fantasies. I even wrote one as a post, on this blog. But I don’t believe them. I used to believe that it was possible for love to be all encompassing and perfect. That it would protect me and keep me safe from the big, bad world once I found the true thing, and it can. It’s just not forever, and it’s not for always. Love is brief. Love grows stale. Love is a shiny jewel that gradually grows lackluster the longer you wear it, before it starts collecting dust in some corner of an attic. It’s very easy to get comfortable with love, and neglect love. But most of all, don’t depend on love. Even the love of your family is tenuous and capricious.
I wish I could put this properly into words. It’s just that love is a wonderful thing, but it shouldn’t be your only thing. Love fades, but books and art don’t, do you know what I mean? It’s the same with beauty and all the other superficial things on this planet. If Romeo and Juliet were real people, their torrid love would have long faded into the wash of time with the disintegration of their flesh. But it is books, and literature, Shakespeare’s words, that have kept an imaginary love alive for decades. Like Miss Honey, I think I choose books, not looks. No-one will care if you and your partner were two of the happiest darn lovebirds on Earth. They will care about your book, about your invention, about your words. I’m wincing at my rambling, and I thank you if you’ve read this far. Such indulgence! Well, that’s what happens when you have a blog and you’re of a philosophical, musing nature.
In the end, everything’s transient, really. Don’t get too attached. Do what your heart yearns to do, birth your creations into the world, but then dust off your hands and leave their fate to the universe. One day, our civilization will end, and all our efforts – our buildings, our inventions, our books, our art – will be for naught. It breaks my heart to think of libraries disappearing in an incineration, a flutter of black ash, of years and years of magical eruptions from human souls destroyed in an instant…but it feels right. Fitting. There is no purpose for our creations if there is no-one left to enjoy them. Our scribbling would mean no more to higher beings than the intricate pheromone trails of ants, and we trample all over those. Let us live. Let us live, and let our living be a brief bloom of a flower of unsurpassable beauty that fades in a blink of an eye.
Let us live.
And remember, there’s always next year, a next Big Bang, for it to bloom again. Perhaps all the universes are an intricate huddle of metaphysical greenhouses, each harbouring their own stunning assortment of galaxy flowers. Oh, how I ramble.