There’s a reason why I try to keep this blog more or less secret, or anonymous, or just unnoticed by people who normally notice me, if you will. This white canvas is the place where I feel confident sharing my mind, may it reach ten people or none. Only here do I wish to convey the sensation of waves crashing over me when I lay down in bed and close my eyes. Telling how the inwardly-visual stimuli builds force and breaks into new areas, new categories, and sends a shaking through my shoulders and my legs until I can hardly stand it anymore.
I recall when I was 12-13 years old, my nights would always start with me imagining that I was at sea, sailing on my own great boat, or was it a yacht? Lying there, blue stretching out in any direction I looked. The blue of the ocean. The blue of the sky. I’d lie there, basking in unobstructed sunlight in the middle of the night, and be rocked to sleep by the slow waves in my bed, calmed by the blues around me.
I don’t know much about dreams, and I know even less about sailing. But I’ve lived in a fantasy at least half my life and I’m used to making up rules as I go.
I’m still too conscious about myself. Always going to the meta level of my thoughts. I still see it as a bug, but I’m getting better at handling it. My method is to think about something else, something in my vicinity, something tangible.
There is a bed, and on that bed am I. There is a pillow and a duvet. There are three additional pillows, but they serve a different role than the main pillow. Whereas the main pillow is for nightly comfort, especially for sleeping purposes, the three extra pillows are partly decorative, partly useful in the daytime when I use my bed as a stand-in sofa. The duvet is slowly heating up, being aided by the warmer temperature of my body. Normally, it would be a give and take process, where the duvet and the heating object would end up at a common temperature someplace in the middle of their respective start temperatures. But I’m a furnace. I’m a hearth. I’m fire, baby. I create warmth, and a cold duvet will only be drawn to my temperature as I keep generating heat.
I sat in my bed yesterday and ate brie cheese contemplating life, reading about another’s. It was a story of illness and extremes and normalcy. The world is tied together, and one can never escape the width of life. Even if you live the slowest life, your emotions will drain you fast. Even if you live with a will to die, you’ll wake up tomorrow 99 percent of your life. There’s no escaping the great machinery we’ve been put into. Even if you do escape, you live on as a was. History will document you, people, family will document you. There are footprints in every crystal of snow you ever stepped on. There’s your light on the sky, transmitting outward to a galaxy where they’ll know of you in a thousand years.
This is what I keep coming back to. The human curse. The sartrean dilemma that we’re sentenced to be free. In a society that has begun to value consent, the most basic consent is still unattainable: that of allowing two people to create you. I know this is a line of argument that can come to no result. There’s no asking a person if it wants to be born before that person is alive. But it does press the cynic in me to devalue the sanctity of life. The sanctity of keeping one’s own life alive.
I keep coming back to Sufjan Stevens. I keep finding bits and pieces of myself in his darkest moments. I apply myself. I love and I laugh. But underneath it all, there’s the constant sad realisation, that life is always up to us, and I feel my sense of inspiration decrease each year.
The things that I want, or that I believe that I want, are the opposite of what my family wishes. How can I tell them, that I don’t mind going away for a year or forever. How can I tell them, when they constantly tell me to come back home, even when I’m just half an hour away.
I want to explore, but I’m filled with a lack of curiosity.
I want to travel, but I’m anxious of going out alone.
I want to live, but I’m focused on death.
I want to be free, but my system of liberation has caged me in.
I don’t know anymore. If it’s just winter. If it’s finally the real depression setting in. If it’s the argument we had earlier. I don’t know.
I just know I keep wanting something else. Something more. But I keep hitting a barrier each time I try to step towards it.
I know there’s more than this.