I'm staring at the screen trying to write but I end up daydreaming. Many cups of tea later I discover the words won't just magically appear on the screen. Well, words are magic, but they need my conscious action to manifest. What if time didn't exist till we bound it with words? Writing for me is a jigsaw made of scattered thoughts. I'm trying to write but mostly I suffer.
What I'm really trying to do here, what brings me strength and power to persist is the desire to share with others and connect via subtle feelings that are present in everyone's life, yet are so elusive that most of the time we decide not to pay attention to them.
That's for me the reason to create art. An attempt to communicate the unspoken and connect on a deeper lever. I used to think of certain painting as if taken out of my dreams. I used to be jealous but i had to understand this dreamland doesn't belong to me alone. That's what makes the connection possible.
In all honesty, I cannot say - is it a common thing for every human being? I spent so much time of my life feeling alienated from a variety of groups that it seems risky to assume so.
I think I was born with an ever present gloom enveloping my fate. Melancholy is my default mode. I cannot remember myself any other way, but longing for these feelings, places, visions from a different dimension. Maybe it's a longing for Mystery. For the longest time I was made believe something was wrong with me and that I was weird. It was hard to communicate these thoughts, escaping the capacity of language. It was hard to fit in and melancholy doesn't seem to make you the most popular. You know, sometimes I think I was too much for most of the people. I've experienced moments of unreasonable hostility towards me throughout my life. Maybe some could sense subconsciously that my views may be a danger to their thinking. I couldn't lie to myself so I was finding ways to make it bearable. Years later I understood I'm not the only one like that. There are others who search, following unknown roads.
Every now and then, however, I stumble upon a fellow human. They have that look about them, a spark in their eye, a special kind. They don't drag their shadow behind, they carry it. They seem familiar, as if we have met before. They are not of an unpleasant kind and soon enough I learn that we speak the same language. The language of subtle reflections. The language beneath the surface. The word before the words. Sometimes i look at the reflections dancing on the the water, I catch the ultimate truths with the corner of my eye. Flying around like butterflies. Playful, pointless and more true than anything you've ever seen. One look at you and I know you've understood before I was able to say anything. Yes, I recognize you now, we must have come from the same place. Why did we leave?
These feelings have been with me since I can remember. They were flickering like dust in the air but smelling mostly quite musky and spicy. Like cinnamon or nutmeg. I never knew when I would have that feeling, but some circumstances were more favorable than others. Sometimes, when I walk long enough, I can find these places in my head. Maybe one day I will walk into past. There is no reason why walking would only concern the space. Perhaps we can't move quick enough.
I would feel bigger than I was, like a giant, and I would lose the awareness of where my body ends and where the rest of the world begins. This feeling was often gone as soon as I acknowledged it. The other moments I would feel as if I was falling and with me the entire universe. There are ways I can enter this void again, where time and space lose their meaning. I can travel with the feelings and impressions. I have to trust where this misty landscape takes me, otherwise I will come back to the limits of the material.
It was in the roses, especially the ones that grew next to a church. It was in those wooden churches and the stained glass windows. In the way the light was shining through them, like it shines through leaves and branches in the forest. I would get this feeling when the dark clouds hanged low in the sky in the warm summer afternoon and in the way the air smelled after the storm. I would often get sad as the sun went down showing the last golden spectacle of the day. In the moon and stars I would find a new hope. Everything was possible. The night giving birth to the bravest ideas. They would turn pale and shy with the first rays of the dawn. All that was a part of something bigger and ineffable yet feeling strangely safe and familiar. Like a home from the time before I was born. The time before time. Why did we create the mirror of time? Dreadful sound of the ticking clock and beauty of inevitable end.
Tic - toc. There was many hidden secrets in my grandmothers flat. She herself was a secret and it remained a mystery to me how one can remain so faithful to their vitriolic nature. There must be some pleasure and comfort in poisonous fumes of one's shadow. Sometimes my parents left us there for couple of days. I remember but a ghost of my grandfather. He seemed to have given up fighting with her and remained silent in his own world. World of maggots and sports channel. The maggots were for fishing, of course. There is one thing I cannot forget from these days. The gloomy paintings with the stormy sea in its different forms. Sometimes, there was a boat and I always wondered - where was it sailing to? I was longing for the same lands. I wish I was on that boat. I wish I could sail to land without time. I think these paintings were doors to different dimensions. Did the painter know? If he did, it remained our secret.
It is so strange, to be trapped in ones own body and live ones entire life like that. Seeing things from only one perspective of a limited human experience. Why did I come here, to these parents, into this body? Why this nation and not any other? There is so many other places I could end up in. More importantly, where would I be, if I wasn't here at all? These were the questions that bothered me since I was able to ask questions.
I highly believe in the consciousness of all things. If I am here and only I know this, there must be "there" somewhere. I used to wonder, what does it feel like for the planets to be in the space? What does it feel like to be in the center of the Sun, in the middle of an explosion impossible to survive. If I can think it, there sure is a feeling there. A presence. What does being Earth feel like? What does death feel like?
When you look at your hand long enough, it becomes a strange, alien tool of an extraterrestrial creature. Of all the funny forms we could assume, why did we choose to become humans? I do explore the universe around me in a sensual way, recreating the meaning of my own. I try to forget the labels of knowing we put on all the things, creating an illusion of understanding. I look at the objects around me and they become abstract, surreal forms. Perhaps in the land in between, the truth reigns. Calm, proud, waiting for you to find her. Will you handle the quest? My world feels unique yet on a rare occasion I get an impression I can communicate it and find a thread of understanding with other beings. Words fail me. Language fails reality. It's a lie almost by default. It can be a beautiful lie as long as we don't attach our sense of self to it. That's why the truth shows itself in silence. In non - words. Sometimes I feel imprisoned by them, so I go silent and carry on creating the galaxies with every blink of an eye.
I was asked recently whether I could ever abandon the journey and give up. Give up to what? For a moment I was stuck in my thoughts, not knowing how to approach the question. There is no giving up. Once you approach a mystery, every little step you take is a hope to get closer to what you knew then. I am too aware of it to content myself with a shallow lie when I know there is a vast, colorful, marvelous world to explore. There is no shadow of a doubt that this is what I'm here for. It takes courage to walk this path where reality crumbles with your every step and wicked traps await you. to seduce you with an illusion of comfort. I used to run away, I was trying to run away from myself. I was trying to calm my racing heart giving it substitute for meaning and empty answers. I couldn't fool it and it will always backlash at me. Now I run because I have an urgent need to live to the fullest. It's a scary perspective. Death waits for no one. The world is big and life is short. There is no time to wait. I have no way of knowing if I ever get closer to the Mystery but it is a dream worth pursuing. I will continue taking one dangerous step after another and feel all the melancholy and joy of human experience till my last breath.
Even now you look at me like you know what I mean. I know the answer echoes in your head but if you said it aloud you would run back into your tower, built so cautiously. You can't come too close, you will burn with the same flame that drives you, the same light you desire. Well, what will you do? Will you be brave? Will you join me chasing lost magic, knowing that looking for meaning is fruitless. Deep inside you know that if you don't it's only your cowardliness that won. There is no deeper grief. Giving up to the illusion of safety makes little sense once you caught a glimpse of whats behind the curtain. There is nothing to lose. Pain will find you anyway. You can win if you stop running away. Do you realize that I am you as much that you are me? That what we have here, our finite carbon based space suits are just marionettes for our souls? There is a secret door right in front of you that is only seen as a reflection on a calm surface. I can hold the mirror for you.
Let us dance beyond the space and time and we will meet again.