Tonight's Poet Corner: Introspection
I am the
enigma of a society that is so carefully un-fantastical that it's a wonder that I'm even thriving in this box where I've carved out each and every paranoia as tiny tally notches in a speck of wood and stone labeling all my insecurities. We
tend to, as a species, fear the unknown and mysterious - from mad cow disease to spider bites to necrosis and tropical illness - that in an attempt to gain control of the uncontrollable, we forget to manage the things we can control, and we suffer for it, greatly. One
out of every three Americans will endure, maybe die of heart disease. One out of every four hundred or so women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. But we try not to think about the things we can manage, because since we understand them, they're so wildly un-mysterious that we try to make the whole world the same way. Even
Christians use their Bibles to explain what is meant to be viewed with awe, to be viewed with marvel and magnitude. Yes, we can learn, we can research, we can explain all the things in our world, maybe in the galaxy, maybe in our tiny niche of the universe, and we will continually expand our knowledge. But when
did we craft the rule that things we know must be dulled and things we don't know must be feared and muted to be entirely insignificant to our senses? We are afraid of things manipulating us, destroying us, when we could be looking at so many other things
we don't know, and right now can't know, and view them with a kind of wonder, not a wonder that is strictly mortal, but a wonder that can last forever, as if we're immortal, as if we're gods, destined to view the cosmos and decipher them forever - for if we give ourselves limits, we can't progress past the boundaries we set. A
scientist who may or may not have existed was turning eighty-seven, and he felt like retiring from physics because he felt like he had no more time to find the answers to the universe and its either constantly diminishing or expanding frequency - which one was it? He thought he couldn't ever find out because he was dying slowly, dying painfully, from a cardiovascular disorder. Dying slowly, dying
impatiently, but one night he decided to pull on his coat, go down to his lab, and research every single day of his life, and he lived on for thirteen more years, thirteen more three hundred sixty-five day-length chances to see if perhaps something greater than him could ever been discerned from the darkness. This
is what we need in this world, a way to view life with wonder without the fear that death will pull us further from the truth. I believe in a
God, and I believe in a
longer existence beyond death. We
cannot understand what awaits us in a mortal shell as of this moment, but we can try. And we can try and try as hard as we can, and
in the end we'll have some shred of understanding of what lies in store, but more so of what we already can see and love, and breathe in, and cherish, and struggle with, and
interpret. I am someone who thrives on ideas crafted from an object with a mushroom texture, worried that some day, something will wreck my gray matter before my perceived time to expire. But what is my expiration date?
I am an
enigma in a city where the main goal is to survive another working day. I cling to the things that are tangible, when the thoughts in my head, though fleeting, will always
linger in the fabrics of time, because I have the whims of a time traveler, hoping to find a world where clocks
rewind and fast-forward around me, and all of space can be sucked into my hand to gaze at like a ball of yarn while I stretch my claws out and scratch at the surface of a spool that keeps unraveling
and unraveling, and
unraveling, 'til there's nothing left but a single thread that leads to an end, or is it perhaps a new
beginning?
[Just to let you very few readers know, I will be in Santa Cruz from Saturday, April 28th (tomorrow) to Sunday, April 29th. Meaning I will most likely be unable to post a OneWord tomorrow. Storyteller, of course, will be late. But don't worry, posts will be up sooner or later. I try my best not to miss too many of my blogging commitments.
By the way, the pseudo-prose-poetry introspection I wrote tonight was inspired by a minute and twenty-six second clip of a man named Jason Silva, transformed into music by Melodysheep.]
Writer's Quotation of the Night:
Every author in some way portrays himself in his works, even if it be against his will.
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.
enigma of a society that is so carefully un-fantastical that it's a wonder that I'm even thriving in this box where I've carved out each and every paranoia as tiny tally notches in a speck of wood and stone labeling all my insecurities. We
tend to, as a species, fear the unknown and mysterious - from mad cow disease to spider bites to necrosis and tropical illness - that in an attempt to gain control of the uncontrollable, we forget to manage the things we can control, and we suffer for it, greatly. One
out of every three Americans will endure, maybe die of heart disease. One out of every four hundred or so women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. But we try not to think about the things we can manage, because since we understand them, they're so wildly un-mysterious that we try to make the whole world the same way. Even
Christians use their Bibles to explain what is meant to be viewed with awe, to be viewed with marvel and magnitude. Yes, we can learn, we can research, we can explain all the things in our world, maybe in the galaxy, maybe in our tiny niche of the universe, and we will continually expand our knowledge. But when
did we craft the rule that things we know must be dulled and things we don't know must be feared and muted to be entirely insignificant to our senses? We are afraid of things manipulating us, destroying us, when we could be looking at so many other things
we don't know, and right now can't know, and view them with a kind of wonder, not a wonder that is strictly mortal, but a wonder that can last forever, as if we're immortal, as if we're gods, destined to view the cosmos and decipher them forever - for if we give ourselves limits, we can't progress past the boundaries we set. A
scientist who may or may not have existed was turning eighty-seven, and he felt like retiring from physics because he felt like he had no more time to find the answers to the universe and its either constantly diminishing or expanding frequency - which one was it? He thought he couldn't ever find out because he was dying slowly, dying painfully, from a cardiovascular disorder. Dying slowly, dying
impatiently, but one night he decided to pull on his coat, go down to his lab, and research every single day of his life, and he lived on for thirteen more years, thirteen more three hundred sixty-five day-length chances to see if perhaps something greater than him could ever been discerned from the darkness. This
is what we need in this world, a way to view life with wonder without the fear that death will pull us further from the truth. I believe in a
God, and I believe in a
longer existence beyond death. We
cannot understand what awaits us in a mortal shell as of this moment, but we can try. And we can try and try as hard as we can, and
in the end we'll have some shred of understanding of what lies in store, but more so of what we already can see and love, and breathe in, and cherish, and struggle with, and
interpret. I am someone who thrives on ideas crafted from an object with a mushroom texture, worried that some day, something will wreck my gray matter before my perceived time to expire. But what is my expiration date?
I am an
enigma in a city where the main goal is to survive another working day. I cling to the things that are tangible, when the thoughts in my head, though fleeting, will always
linger in the fabrics of time, because I have the whims of a time traveler, hoping to find a world where clocks
rewind and fast-forward around me, and all of space can be sucked into my hand to gaze at like a ball of yarn while I stretch my claws out and scratch at the surface of a spool that keeps unraveling
and unraveling, and
unraveling, 'til there's nothing left but a single thread that leads to an end, or is it perhaps a new
beginning?
[Just to let you very few readers know, I will be in Santa Cruz from Saturday, April 28th (tomorrow) to Sunday, April 29th. Meaning I will most likely be unable to post a OneWord tomorrow. Storyteller, of course, will be late. But don't worry, posts will be up sooner or later. I try my best not to miss too many of my blogging commitments.
By the way, the pseudo-prose-poetry introspection I wrote tonight was inspired by a minute and twenty-six second clip of a man named Jason Silva, transformed into music by Melodysheep.]
Writer's Quotation of the Night:
Every author in some way portrays himself in his works, even if it be against his will.
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.
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