Forever Fragmented

"Who looks outside, dreams; Who looks inside, awakes"

2005-05-09T03:40:33Z

I dreamed last night. I suppose it's something worth mentioning since it's become such a rare event. Most nights I close my eyes to the darkness of the walls and open them seemingly an instant later to find myself immersed in the rays of morning. Even when I used to dream regularly, I don't ever remember being able to recall them in their entirety, vividly, in a linear fashion. (If dreams ever really are.) They were when I awoke just silent images on a reel with missing frames. Some things memorable, others not so much, but always missing whatever piece necessary to link them all together. This was not the case last night, though I feel that it might as well have been.

I can still taste the mustiness of the room, smell the of years of dust collecting on the dark walls of the room, feel the moisture in the air, like a fog that had settled within the walls just to evaporate for atmosphere. I couldn't recognize the surroundings, the belongings, but it somehow felt very familiar. I knew which way to turn in the corridor without thinking, the way that would lead me to the stairs. Silvery lighting made the photos and other hangings on the wall glow in shadow, framed silhouettes and shaded landscapes. I could feel the weather beaten rail as I eased my hand across it,smoothness diminished with the polish, warn to nothing but cracks and splinters. Every movement echoed, my footsteps, the brushing of the fabric of my clothing, even my own breathing seemed to take on this heightened level of sound. Gazing down into the darkness of the stairs I could see nothing. As the steps dropped off into some otherworldly abyss. Though as I neared the end of the stair, there came the sound of a piano. Lightly at first, then slowly, as I stopped to listen more closely, it grew. And from the corner of my eye I saw the soft blaze of what I knew to be candle light. I seemed to float after that, winding my way through the gray cloaked maze of furniture. It seemed like ages before I actually reached the entrance way to the source of the music. Though light had illuminated from its depths I could see no source, and though the furniture in this room too was cloaked, it seemed to drift to the side as is making room for all the view the one at the piano. At first I could see nothing of the person besides dark wisps of hair surrounding his face. He did not look up, and even though like almost everything else the song seemed familiar, and if I heard it again, I would instantly recognize it, I do not now know what it's title. I found myself being drawn forward, though I myself had made no effort. And as I neared the side of the pianist, all music fell sharply away, and his head jolted upwards to meet my gaze. For moments all I could concentrate on were his blood red lips, twisting themselves crookedly as he prepared to speak. Finally lifting my eyes upward I met his, Dark empty reflective orbs. I could only see myself. And then he spoke, whispered. "Distance." And then I was falling backward, to find myself awake in my bed.

It is not a strange thing to have dreams that one does not understand, and I'm not looking for answers.

It's a short swim, but don't drown in your earnest Keats....

2005-05-06T19:07:19Z

Realistically, is possible to go through life without becoming at least somewhat cynical? Betrayals, let downs, and just general disappointment seems to suggest there will come a day when optimism fades and is replaced by scathing doubt. Who doesn't enjoy sardonic wit, the mockingly humorous quips of clever critics? Even I am not immune. Though to me, it seems a bit too easy. I will be the first to admit that life is not eternal sunshine, that the world is populated by many who are blatantly self-serving. Those who use whoever they can until they don't need them anymore. I just find it impossible to believe that about everyone. I think I associate cynicism with not trying, hiding behind negatives and shunning sincerity in fear of being hurt. I never want to be that afraid.

...Since pain is my muse, ironically, this whole thought seems outrageously self-serving.

A shot of Nyquil could have fixed everything

2005-05-03T19:10:35Z

As I lay in bed last night, eyes wide open to the slow revolving shadows upon the walls of my room. My thoughts turned to my father, and the lonely grave that must certainly be his at the absence of any visits from his family. It has been a long time since I have even thought about it, or thought about him, a fact that might seem surprising to many. And as I tried to rest, head sunk deep with in the confines of my pillow, I posed to myself a question: Do you miss him? And surprisingly I could not answer directly.
I feel his absence for sure, but can you truly miss someone you never really knew? You knew him, you spent 8 years of your life with him? I knew him in the physical, I knew his name. I know what he looked like. I could tell of his daily habits, unique facial expressions, of his stern facade and the feeling of dread it sometimes elicited. He was my father. However I couldn't tell of a single thing that made him who he was, what went on inside his thoughts or what passions drove him. I couldn't tell of the childhood that formed him, of the important events that shaped his frame of mind, or even a simplest personal joy that made him feel fulfilled. Is it not these things that make a person who the are?
I wonder though, if sometime I make the journey to see him, if that will somehow make a difference in the way I feel. If there will be some strange connection, an infusion from beyond if you will, an unlocking of memories long forgotten. If a grave marker indeed can act as such junction. But perhaps that's not the point at all, it's the act of trying perhaps that seems to count.
I'm struggling here, pulling at fragmented memories, desperately trying to prove to myself that perhaps I knew him better that I thought. And is all of this because I love him? Or because I feel worried and guilty that I never earned such emotion.

"Keats...you're a downer"

2005-04-30T04:40:44Z

It is a great wonder to me why I am seemingly only driven to write out of sadness and solitude. Whether it be creative work or unimportant rambling, my muses seem to always be Wistfulness and Melancholy. At great length I could write about the depths of pain and the mournful songs of loneliness. Yet, if prompted to write of happiness and the joys of life I find myself blank, struggling for words that usually drip from my fingertips with ease. Am I that bereaved with shadows and so lost within them that even the brightest rays of precious light cannot break the darkness. I know happiness. I know joy. I am not perpetually fixated on negatives. So why then are those energies what inspire me?
It has been said that the most moving art is that which is inspired by misery and suffering or rather the perseverance of such. Because it is only when we know true agony that we know true blessedness. But as much that comes from happiness it is believed, at least by myself, that there must certainly be inspiration in the light. And it is that illumination that frustratingly eludes me.

I should just be glad I am able to write at all.