I want to read a really ambitious novel, one that tries to find a grand, big truth and isn’t afraid to show it, to tell it and stand by it. I want to read courage. And I don’t even care that much if it is filled with flaws and only half-finished. It’s the scope of the project I’m interested in: the idea. It’s the belief that there are truths to be found; truths that matter, because there are so many truths that don’t. Truths that are just purely matter of fact with no changing relevance to my life or your life or the age of the trees around us. I want a truth that puts leaves on branches and helps cats get down when they’re stuck 10 feet above ground. I want something that makes me feel, ’cause God knows I haven’t felt the World in too long now. I simply drift along, taking small chances here and there but never actually sacrificing, never putting myself out there with the risk of getting let down by the World as the World has a tendency to do. No, I just breathe, I just breathe and read and write, and live my little life like there’s no point making decisions, there’s no changing the circumstances we’re in, even though I know there is, but I don’t feel it. I never feel the lasting effect of the change. I always end up in the same place, the same time: caught again. I know there’s a world out there. I know there’s something that I normally refer to as “different,” which is what I long for. Call it the green grass on the other side, call it the fresh beach after the tide, call it anything you want, it’s what I long for, it’s what I’m so afraid of finding and finding out that it never was all that different to begin with. Like that cat in the tree again, stuck, seeing the exit lane but staying put: why risk it? why risk it all?
I don’t know how to look at myself anymore. My vision is blurred – both out and in. Am I just lazy? Am I afraid? Am I in the land of Demons? Am I here? I need a dream. Any dream. I haven’t thought much about death after I had those dreams where I got shot through the heart three nights in a row. I didn’t know what to make of them. I’m still not quite sure, but they’ve released me from my thoughts about death. They have given me a certainty: That’s what it’s like? – nothing much to see here, and I have been able to (or, really it’s been much more automatic than “been able to”) steer away from thoughts, thoughts that have otherwise lingered on my mind for as long as I can remember. It’s not that I have filled that vacant space with thoughts about life though. That’s my main problem at hand, I think, not knowing what to think about. I don’t have a focus. Where’s my melancholy? Where’s my yearning for something? That’s probably what frightens me the most, how excruciatingly hollow the halls of my mind seem to get whenever I hit these dry spells. I’ve talked about how I’ve instead managed to focus on my studies, and that’s correct, to some degree. I’ve definitely been more attentive and studious than ever before, but no matter how much energy I put into it, it’s always the things outside of it, or only very peripheral things to it that truly get me interested. I miss being a kid and the only thing I had to do to get interested in a thing was to look at it, and all of a sudden I would hear these questions in my head, what is it? what does it do? who made this? I’m just not interested anymore, or I know the things I feel like I should know? Which sounds super self-involved. Which I probably am.
My main aspiration is to create one grand work of art that encompasses all the major art forms. It has sound, it has words, it has pictures, it has form, it has motion, and it evolves when different people look at it, because that’s what the World does. It’s summed up in meaning, but meaning is created by us whenever we look at something and think about something and talk about something, and act with something: We create meaning, the meaning gets created between us. And that’s another of my problems: I spend far too much time alone, and when a person spends time alone, meaning begins to disappear, it evaporates like a lone puddle of water on a stretch of road, losing its density, losing its form: shrinking, until the puddle is but a dark spot on the road, a weak memory of what once was. That’s meaning to me, a weak memory. Something I had, but lost, and have been finding in glimpses ever since. But what’s a glimpse to a vision?
What’s a glimpse to a vision?