Theory

“Never let your sense of morals prevent you from doing what is right.”
 Isaac Asimov

~

The headache takes over. My fictional bubble tightens its grip on my extremities. They all become silhouettes though I know that they are so much more and that they, too, have bubbles. It's amazing how people can write so many things about their feelings though they don't truly know those people they love. In theory, I see all the ethical, religious and psycho-social patterns falling back to love - or lack thereof. In theory, I find music, literature and art struggling with sounds and symbols, nature and soul, to have a chance at communicating the fabric of love through chills, tears and accelerating or decelerating heartbeats. In theory, I miss my best friend. In theory, I wish I were capable of teleportation. In theory, almost everything is theoretical no matter how much you refer to it as practical experience.

If humans had a button that could play the song of whatever their brainwaves have to say, the world would be alright. Or, maybe, it would be far worse than it is now.

There are many paths, many ideas, many theories. And we discover some of them. Yet one must always remember that these mostly well-paved roads had been there long before we found them, that these roads could have only been created by an intelligent designer.

But it's amazing how almost every single ego is inflated. We don't know for sure why we were born or why we die. And going forward from this point to that one, we convince ourselves that we comprehend patterns of knowledge, even though we struggle to link the few core ideas we have from one layer to another. Hell, we don't even know how these ideas come to mind. All in all, we know virtually nothing. We don't know ourselves. We're not capable of knowing other people's intentions. And while science, with its widely acclaimed progress, continues to succeed in avoiding the important questions, mankind continues to fail in understanding all the words that matter - Time. Consciousness. Love. Identity. Human. Purpose.

So ask them. Ask them about the label they wrap around their pen. Ask them about the grace in their handwriting, and the purpose of its content. Then wonder about the significance of this broken pen and burning paper compared to the vastness of the universe - unless of course it is within us, and our pens, and brushes and chords redefine it, falling short almost everyday.

I wish I could do better. I wish I could swear that I try my best. But the only thing I can say for sure is that I feel like a theoretical wishing well, one that never works.

~

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
 Martin Luther King Jr

Nausea

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

Carl Jung

~

I don't know what to say. 

Maybe he needs to let them travel alone. Maybe she needs to stop sacrificing her own happiness for other people. Maybe they need to stay in their world of delusion. Maybe I need to be less ambiguous. And maybe I can't let anyone in because I don't understand self-love. And maybe I should tell my best friend that I'm here for him even though we haven't been talking for a while. And maybe I like uncertainty. Maybe I somehow find it safe. And, maybe, you're just pretending to be yourself.

I still don't know what to say.

It doesn't have to be good. It just has to come out. What are you talking about? Well, the words of course. Because throughout this lonely course I have never hurt anyone intentionally. Because I'm tired. Because this needs to come out. It's good that I'm sick. This way I can pretend that these tears are past sins and not a result of my allergic reactions. You break down walls to find new ones right behind them. What an ugly scene. It sure feels that all the poetry in the world has died. No it doesn't you moron. Why are you writing this anyway? No one's gonna get this. No one is ever gonna get you. You know that. You've always known that. Well it doesn't matter anyway. 

Yeah, whatever.

Sure, you can analyze these lines. You can project them onto the vast data you have stored in your head. And you can try to dress the idea you have of me with that worn-out fabric. But they won't fit. Because nothing really fits, you see. Because the models we design are always flawed. No matter what we tell ourselves in hindsight, they, like us, are always flawed; the game is rigged - no it isn't. But that's okay. Because it wouldn't be fun without all the broken parts and the missing pieces. There would be no point. Yes I just changed the subject.

Okay.

These cigarettes taste like shit. But they're still better than this shitload of one-dimensional patterns you're writing. A disgrace to the craft and a disappointment to your parents - outstanding. Even your own defense mechanisms are laughing at you. Aren't you gonna end your pathetic literary attempt with a late twist of fate like you always do?  No I won't. Hey maybe you should scan your head. I think something's wrong with your prefrontal cortex.

Failure.

Allow me to spit out my fears and insecurities as I read these words with the voice in your head - or perhaps as the child in you softly whispers them for me. No I'm not okay but thank you for asking. Of course I'm okay. 

It's just that I'm overwhelmed you know?

Yeah just go back to sleep. 

I just remembered what happened in the afternoon. It was a good day. Here's to synchronicity.

Wait what happens when two mirrors stare into each other for too long?

~

"La Loba sings over the bones she has gathered. To sing means to use the soul-voice. It means to say on the breath the truth of one's power and one's need, to breathe soul over the thing that is ailing or in need of restoration. This is done by descending into the deepest mood of great love and feeling, till one's desire for relationship with the wildish Self overflows, then to speak one's soul from that frame of mind." 

Clarissa Pinkola Estes