Maybe it doesn't mean so much to put these markings down anymore. Maybe the twist in the tale isn't enough every time. The enforced practice and unpredictable will are just easy-to-believe lies. There is no value to intangible ideas being jotted down in unvisited corners of the internet.
These thoughts have no reason to form anymore and the sentences I construct seem weaker than ever before. Have I smoked away my art? Lost it somewhere in the misfiring networks of a clouded cranium? How long ago was it then? Mustn't have been that far back if it's still able to affect me.
I don't doubt my ability to rise to a challenge and present a piece of work. Commercial writing will still bring me my piece of pie. But these rambles are harder to come by now. I'm distracted by the visual medium and it's begun to annoy me. The world of words has grown so much larger and the map isn't zooming in as it used to. I guess this is what being rusty feels like, fingers dancing an unsure tune as the letters attempt to fall into sensible place.
Somewhere a whisper floats; unblock your mind and the words will comply. So let's get started then, shall we?
Love is never enough. We may wish it, want it, beg it to fill our cups, but it wont. More than anything, love is what requires most effort to keep alive. In this world separated by time difference, breathing life into it every time it convulses in absence-induced seizure is going be harder than we are prepared for. There will be times when we will falter. This isn't an attempt at being mysterious or abstract, it's just a fact that love sometimes limps. It hobbles behind us as you or I get distracted by the life we are trying to build. Some work emergency takes precedence over meeting each other and it becomes habit until it turns into a fight. Love is not the most important thing in a relationship, time is. The more we spend together, the more we know each other and learn to accept the parts that are irreparable.
That being said, I am still discovering all my broken parts. I realize some things are wrong with me but I am also learning to understand those things. I get distracted easily. I abandon projects mid-way. This page itself will be ignored multiple times over before it even sees the light of day. The need in my life was never really love. It was exactly what you want. A partnership. A companion who can find a way when you are lost. Someone to share stories with, more than anything. A match. Wit for wit and madness for madness. Someone who can pull me farther than my own stupid limitations and help me grow with every aching kiss. All I have ever wanted is a woman who I will want to be a man for.
The truth is, I haven't matured at all. I am still the young idiot, prone to addictions and numerous excuses. One third of my life has passed by and I don't find myself closer to an answer than when I began. Some questions have been concluded and new ones have been raised in their stead. Like, what kind of life do I want? Is the enticing utopia of lifelong singledom still part of my vision or has this calmer dream of a beautiful home actually replaced it? At some level, I would like to think that it has. A purpose has been added to life and though it points towards clouded shores, at least it is in some direction.
There is this fear of building a hollow castle. All my time away from people has taught me the importance of having connections. Yet another day has gone by without meeting someone who I have already endlessly delayed catching up with. The reason for this may be because of the 'grand design' to shift bases altogether. Creating a network here seems pointless somehow. In an industry with such a bad memory, it should theoretically be possible to make a return at any time. This illusory guarantee keeps me away from those who can help my case in some way or another.
I will make peace with my past and sail away someday. On the road to growing up I have mistreated, misled and misbehaved with many people. Far lesser than others I know, but too many for me to just turn around and saunter away. Before I take a step towards the future, I have to close these chapters or fix the story in some way or another. The persisting feeling that these ghosts will not let me be until I speak to them is the only reason I wish to pursue an idea as foolish as 'closure'.
I must rediscover writing in the first person. Creating characters and understanding their motivations is a skill best practiced in more profitable and public annals. The ancient habit of marking my memories and thoughts must not be allowed to die. There are times when I forget that the reason to write was never a wish to be read. It was always a want to shape in words the ideas that would otherwise be nothing more than a mere spark in the brain. I guess this is what it means to make them tangible.
So maybe, in the end, I've been running in circles when the answer was right there in front of me. The reason to put these thoughts down is to make my mark, as minuscule as it may be. And as long as my fingers have strength and my brain can birth the wisp of an idea, I must keep writing. Not for anyone I know or a random reader in the world, but more for the sheer self-fulfilment of the practice.
