5 posts tagged “writing”
As a child,
I thought I could live without pain,
without sorrow.And as a man,
I found it's all caught up with me;
I'm asleep yet I'm so afraid.— Dream Theater, Metropolis Pt. 1
So if you're empty come with me,
and watch the world go by;
we'll laugh and laugh until we bleed,
just so that we don't cry.— Cypher, Exit Stage Left
A good friend asked me a question the other day, something like: "What's your happiest memory of your parents?" I struggled quite a bit to come up with an answer to this question, and that effort really brought something into focus: that is, the difference in the way I perceive misery and happiness. Indeed, if you've read some of the "feeling" pieces of writing that I've posted on my blog in the past, you might easily come the conclusion that my life is defined by great misery and sadness; but while there's certainly been enough pain and suffering in my life, I would generally characterise it as one of happiness and contentment.
So, why all the sorrow and darkness? As I tried to think back to happy memories, I realised that I couldn't recall any single specific moment of happiness in my life; all of the happy times just blur together into one long stream of feelings, a sea of warmth and comfort. By contrast, the moments of sorrow stand out like brilliant points of light, frozen in the stream of time, individual moments of misery in a background of happiness. I can recall with frightening clarity most of these moments, down to the lines and bumps of the furniture, the dirt on the floor, the background sounds and noises, even the scents in the air; and most of all, the exquisite sensation or emotion of sorrow itself — what might perhaps be described as emotional masochism.
As a result, I find it hard to write about happiness and joy; there are no details to lock onto, no sensations to describe, no images with which a tapestry of metaphor may be weaved. Perhaps some day I'll find a frame of reference within which to describe these things; until then, I guess I'll continue to write about sadness and misery.
(Incidentally, I'm trying to work on bringing an actual character to life in their own right, rather than as a mere prop through which I attempt to convey a feeling; so with any luck, you'll be seeing some writing in that vein shortly...)
Allan knew, long before he stepped through the doorway.
The falcon's whisperings had been growing more and more frantic, but his mind desperately shoved this to the side, seeking out any distraction that presented itself in a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable. His companions had not even noticed; Allan spent most of his time seemingly preoccupied by matters of the mind, and his behaviour today was hardly out of character. Yet, as the group approached the entrance to Allan's home, Nicole was filled with a sourceless sense of foreboding and dread; her subconscious somehow picking up a hint of the invisible inner turmoil that now seized the young man.
Step followed step as the threshold drew near, and the whispers became whimpers, then loud sobs. The colours of the world began to leak away, leaving behind a painful contrast of greys. The light brush of clothing against the skin was suddenly the painful rasp of sandpaper, and the faint whisper of a breeze was now an icy blizzard, whirling around him in sympathetic agony. The inescapable dread rose up blindly in his mind, gibbering incoherently, as he retreated from the unbearable assault on his senses; the falcon's cries continued to grow in volume, drowning out all other sound and nearly forcing him to a stop as he stepped through the entrance.
Inside, the old man sat on one of the ancient chairs placed around the room; Emily's body sprawled across the chair next to him, clutching the old man's hand with a death grip. Her muted sobs were inaudible over the sudden, dreadful scream of the falcon as Allan's eyes brushed across the scene, barely taking it in. From somewhere within, the absurd observation that the furniture needed reupholstery flitted briefly across his mind, intermingled with that insane gibbering inner voice. He saw the old man's lips moving, the sobbing heaves of Emily's chest, but the sound was still far beyond. It didn't matter, anyway, and as he collapsed to the ground, the world exploded with unbearable light, the falcon's impossibly drawn-out scream pushing him to the ground.
Allan's mind turned away from the light and sound, only to be confronted by Her face. Her brilliant, ever-present smile was now somehow confrontational; the warmth and love in her eyes now shot accusations and blame as he turned and fled down a mental corridor. The effort was futile; the image was on every wall, waiting for him at every branch and corner, an infinite prison of reflections, while somewhere behind him a nameless, roaring threat pursued him through the mental maze. The insane, gibbering voice now threatened to utterly eclipse the others, driving him onwards mindlessly, until he finally collapsed screaming in his own mind, unable to continue. Within moments the pursuing storm swept over him, stripping the very flesh from his body; the scream was now all his, as indescribable agony wracked his damaged frame. Then, somehow, She was there; Her smiling face seemingly impervious to the destruction as Her delicate and fragile arms gripped him, holding him in place with impossible force.
The sensation of time passing had deserted him; the very memory of entering the house only moments ago was now buried in the distant past. Finally, the storm began to subside, the unimaginable fury beginning to dwindle. The inconceivable strength of Her arms had held him in place throughout the ordeal, cradling him with love and warmth, not allowing him to be moved even the slightest distance. Now, as the agony drew to an end, She gently lowered him to the floor of the corridor. He looked up, motionless and uncomprehending, as She began to fade, flowing away with the last of the storm, until Her whispered farewell accompanied the last of Her into oblivion.
The world snapped back into place. The stark contrast of grey assaulted his eyes again, and once more the falcon's voice could be heard again; no longer screaming, but now weeping inconsolably. As his eyes adjusted to the harshness of the light, he became aware of Nicole's frantic form bend over him; he realised her lips were moving, and strained for the sound... "Allan! Allan! Come back to us!"
He suddenly stood, his iron strength returning as demanded, and took the frantic Nicole into his arms, as she collapsed against him in relief. The others looked on, fearful; the warmth in his eyes was gone now, replaced by the icy coldness of the falcon, and even Emily's tear-streaked face was watching him intently, the flood having temporarily abated. He glanced over to the old man, and when he spoke, the terrifying ring of command could not be refused.
"Take me to Her body."
And I,
want to tell you;
but words so clumsy are not my friends,
they starve these thoughts when they begin.And I,
still need you to know;
but my lips are tightly holding back,
the sentiment inside is lying trapped.— The Crüxshadows, The Sentiment Inside
So, you may be wondering what's up with the weird prose I've been posting here lately; hopefully this post can shed a little light on something that's not so easily put into words. We're going to be heading into some of the deeper regions of my mind here, so if none of this makes any sense, it's probably either because your mind is wired very differently to mine (which is true for most people), or because I'm just a raving lunatic (I certainly hope that's not the case, but there's obviously no way for me to tell).
I have a relatively high degree of meta-awareness of my mind's functionings; I've recently discovered that it doesn't actually go as deep as I thought — or rather, that my mind goes deeper than I had previously thought, but nonetheless, I suspect this self-awareness is above normal levels. I am also a concept user (this may, in fact, be the source of my self-awareness); as a high-level concept user, my mind tends to make associations and take note of isomorphisms across concepts drawn from completely unrelated areas. One of the results of this process is what I have sometimes referred to as my "inner fantasy narrative".
At a certain level, all concepts are simply metaphors layered on other metaphors; if I use a word, such as "red", that word is simply a metaphor for the aggregate concept attached to that word; that concept is an aggregation of the individual conceptualizations of thousands (or millions, or billions) of people, and yet every person will have a slightly different mental representation or conceptualization of that concept, since mental concepts cannot stand in isolation from other related / dependent concepts. What I refer to as my inner fantasy narrative is a surreal blend of fantasy, imagery, and metaphor. On one level, it serves as an outlet for my romantic approach to life; on another level, it serves as a mental tool for manipulating concepts that are not fully formed — particularly concepts that simply cannot be put into plain language to be communicated to others. The source of these "partial" concepts is, of course, my intuition; for all my scientific-mindedness, on an operational level I am a highly intuitive being. I rely almost exclusively on my intuition for decision-making, and my intuition is almost never wrong; that's not to say that my intuition always provides the "right answer" in any particular situation, but the answers it does provide come with an associated degree of certainty; so when my intuition suggests a particular answer with a high degree of certainty, I can be highly confident in that answer.
So, what the heck *is* this fantasy narrative? In one way, it's like a work of fantasy fiction; I draw on concepts and images from works of fiction by many authors, as well as other media such as music, movies, TV series, games, and so on, along with images of my own creation. In this narrative, I am, of course, the hero of the story: the wizard battling the power forces of his enemies, the spy slipping quietly through society leaving no traces, the white knight in his shining armour riding to rescue the damsel in distress, the dark demon leaving carnage and sorrow in his wake. These aren't delusions of grandeur; the whole point is that it *is* fantasy, not something I truly believe. It's not meant to be a concrete representation of reality, and in fact, it cannot be a representation of reality; it provides a way to mentally represent combinations of concepts that are not necessarily reified in real life (say, a conceptual overlap between business and music), or even concepts that are incoherent or inconsistent.
This is the source of the writing I've been spewing out here of late; in some sense, it's a biographical / autobiographical story, but certain aspects are dramatized / fantasized, and in other places I've deliberately changed the facts of the story, either for effect, or because I cannot adequately describe the true facts of history.
Where am I going with all of this? I'm not entirely sure; I've mostly been writing simply for the sake of writing. If you find it enjoyable simply for the sake of reading, that's great; if you identify with some of the fuzzy concepts embedded in the writing, even better. Just don't take any of this too seriously; in some sense, there are deep truths buried here, but only in the same sense that the alphabet contains every possible concept. This is not Zen Buddhism: any deep truths you discover will be drawn from your own experiences and wisdom, not through some deep wisdom that I've cleverly hidden in my writing.
There's probably more to come in this meta-expository vein; in particularly, there's more stuff I'd like to say about emotion and empathy, but I'll stop here for now.
[Continuity note: this serves as a continuation of an earlier post; it is, if you will, a separate story in the same "universe"]
Maybe I'm just Cassandra fleeting
Twentieth century Icon bleeding
Willing to risk Salvation
to escape from isolation
— Dream Theater, Voices
The Maiden was born into a modest family. She was not blessed with exceptional physical beauty, but nurtured by loving parents and family, her true beauty quickly began to show: an incredibly inner purity. The Maiden matured in a relatively sheltered environment; and yet, even had her family wished it, isolating her from the world would have been impossible. Thus, many expected the shine of her purity to be dulled and smudged by the corruption of reality, but this was not to be. Far from being dulled, her inner light grew in luminance, the external forces of destruction merely serving to polish her outer diamond-like facets, allowing the light to shine brighter than ever before.
Like all children, her mind was at first filled with the lies of childhood, her mind kept safely within a stained-glass prison of innocence. The simple lies were soon discarded like clothing out-grown, and yet the biggest lies of all she embraced with a frightening passion. Those trapped within the lies saw nothing strange in this, of course, but those who had long since discarded the lies for one reason or another found her dedication and passion either naïvely amusing, or alarmingly misguided. Few suspected the truth, however.
Such was her passion and dedication that out of lies and illusion she formed truth: that self-same stained-glass prison became a Temple of Light manifest in her purity, and those who glimpsed this temple were filled with awe and amazement. How could such purity survive, beset on all sides by corruption and evil? How could such innocence survive? For she truly did not realise that her unshakable truth was mere fantasy for others.
Time passed, and those who watched from the shadows continued to marvel and wonder. Would her purity continue to shine yet brighter? Could her innocence truly be impervious to worldly assaults? Naturally, she was still susceptible to the fragility of youth, but those around her could easily shield her from the mundane dangers that threaten all those not yet fully grown.
It was not to be, however. Her light had shone so brightly that few had been able to see behind it the keen intensity of her mind, a mind blessed with great intelligence. With this mind driving her inexorably along the only path she could see, it was inevitable that her path would lead her beyond the sandbox of familiar childhood, and there her innocence would run dry. And so it came to pass that the Maiden ate of the Tree, and was cursed with the horror of awareness; for the first time, she truly perceived the nightmare swirling about her Temple, and understood that those around her dealt in lies and illusion; only when illuminated by that inner light could these things manifest as truth.
For a time, she retreated under the shock and grief of this sudden awareness. Those around her mistook this for a sign of immaturity, as few could discern the truth of her situation, and this only served to reinforce her loneliness and bleakness. Yet, even this new curse could not destroy her; the light still sustained her, and as time passed on yet again, her wounds healed, and developed new strength to survive the nightmare.
The Maiden emerged from her Temple to once again confront the world: but this time, she moved with purpose: the determination of one who is not merely following the path, but who knows where the path will end. This time she would take her light to others, so that they might join her in the Temple, and find their worthless illusions manifest as truth.
The Maiden was now no more; but The Goddess now went forth into the world.
[to be continued]
Once upon a time, there was a intelligent young boy with all the boundless energy and enthusiasm of youth; he eagerly engaged those around him in timeless debates, seeking to increase his understanding, while correcting the lies and misunderstanding he encountered. The world spun around him in brightly blurred colours, wrapped in his joy and happiness, and those around him spoke in hushed, awed tones at what they believed to be his potential.
Time passed, and with it came the endless and relentless chipping away of life; the boy became a youth, and the youth became a man. If pressed, he could not have told you when it appeared there, or how, but about his shoulders lay a mantle of responsibility, growing indescribably heavy. The surface of his memories had become coarse and indistinct, the details scratched away by the sandpaper of time; and the energy and enthusiasm of his youth were now but a faint whisper in the depths of his mind. No longer did those around him whisper in awe; instead, they fearfully pulled away, sensing something dark and ugly lurking beneath his comely exterior. One by one, the friends and family that once surrounded him had slipped away, so quietly and swiftly that their disappearance had utterly escaped his notice, until the day that he suddenly looked around and found himself utterly alone.
For the first time in so very long, the young man stopped to look around him. Gone now were the blurred, colourful images that had surrounded him in his youth; in their place, he found a world of stark shades, viewed through a lens with focus of unearthly clarity. The sharpness of the images was nearly such that it hurt to gaze upon these new sights; and the images he saw now resembled nothing of his nearly-forgotten childhood, save for a few hints of familiarity glimpsed from time to time. He gazed fully upon the true darkness of the world that had now surrounded it, and as he gazed, the darkness was drawn inward, absorbed into his very soul, the sharpness of clarity cutting away the last vestiges of youthful ignorance.
Despite no longer being able to draw on the energy of youth for strength, the man was not powerless: he had now begun to draw on the darkness of the world. Trust had been replaced by cynicism, and the bubbling warmth of joy and happiness had been replaced by the soothing cold of sadness and despair. With this new-found strength, he began to rebuild his world, once again drawing a web friends and family about him, but far more selectively and cautiously than before. Slowly he expanded his web of control, gaining power over that which he could, and discarding that which was beyond his power.
More time passed, and he began to turn once more to the battles of intellectual will that he dimly recalled from his youth. But oh! how so very different it now seemed; having fought the world in the darkness of its true form, these battles now seemed to be nothing more than frivolous silliness. It was all meaningless now; he could now see through the cloak of lies and deception, and in every case the same truths presented themselves. No new meaning or knowledge was to be found.
He began to wander aimlessly through this landscape. Visiting the darkest of the dark places, he realised that there was no longer any true horror to be found in this world; returning to the places of brightest light, he found the light dimmed and subdued, no longer the searing powerful brightness he recalled from so long ago. With each step, he gained more power, and yet at the very same time, his need for it diminished; for what need is there for power, if there is nothing over which you would exert it? Even the deep, unfathomable chill of the sadness and despair within his soul was now of no consequence; and that mantle of responsibility which had once seemed unbearably heavy was now weightless about his shoulders.
Finally, he began to sense something new. Slowly, inexorably, relentlessly; a crushing weariness was now filling his soul.
[to be continued]
