For most
of my life I have believed that words are the ruins left by those compelled to
record their thoughts as the result of their addiction to this world, and just
as ancient pottery must break into shards and ancient buildings are reduced to
their foundations and dinosaurs have left behind their skeletons, all of our
scribblings and notations, even this here narrative, must eventually lose their
meaning. I say this to you, and yet I still attempt with all of my literary
might to describe my experiences, though I can promise you that nothing, in the
end, will seem conclusive. Stories are like dreams in this way. They happen.
They do not happen. They are right here. They exist in some other world
entirely.
And
there are some dreams that get stuck between your teeth when you sleep, so that
when you open your mouth to yawn awake they fly right out of you. I have been
confusing my dreaming with reality, my make-belief with actuality. I spend so
many hours each day in solitude, constructing images and scenarios and
perfectly punctuated paragraphs in hopes that someday, somehow, I will
understand how to bring them to life, how to make relevant these remnants of my
mind, to preserve this rubble as relics, with honour and reverence, to somehow
survive the inevitable destruction of significant worth.
I am
indeed addicted to this world, and I am in awe of my life. You are allowed to
hold a higher admiration for your own work in existence, especially when all
you do is aim to be someone whose life is routinely transcendental. And when
this is your only (or primary) intent, you begin to recognize divinity in the
everyday ordinary. Your own life becomes unrivaled, your existence
unparalleled, your whole world exceptional. You lose any desires you once had
to be accepted, to be validated, to be authenticated by anyone or anything. You
stop searching for things to make you happy and start simply counting all of
the ways you smiled that day. You stop waiting for circumstances to improve and
start wondering how life in its current state could possibly get any better. You
count blessings instead of hours remaining in a work shift or days remaining in
a workweek or months remaining on a contract. You spew sanguineness, you
radiate readiness and buoyance, you attract fortune and opportunity.
I find
meaning in my motions, in my daydreams and my dialogues, even if I know these
things may not survive the ultimate test of time. That is okay, because right now they are strong and beautiful and
alive. Right now they are relevant,
if to no one else but myself. Right now I have every motivation and every
intention to keep these dreams at the surface of both my sentient and my
subconscious.
Sure, a
new exciting life lays right on the horizon for me… but this life right here
and now is certainly magnificent anyway.
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