You wake up on January first.
You wake up on January first.
You wake up on January first.
With no absolute reality, with all of us experiencing the world in our own truths and perspectives, if we all see that we are quite distinct from one another – why is there such an overwhelming amount of anger at our differences as individuals? To disagree is one thing; to cause discord and have blood slain over it is another. We can only come so far in being in accordance with and influencing the people around us, but for this to be kept in mind, and moreover, for us to stand in unity despite distinctions, we must first have acceptance.
Stars remind you of home – a place that exists in the past and nowhere else. It was where you could breathe and live and belong and take all of those things for granted.
The city didn’t have much of them. Tonight was a rare feat with a few stars scattered in the night sky, twinkling; a reminder of home, of the fact you had breathed and lived and belonged, and maybe someday, you would again.
These thoughts occur to you while you stood barefoot outside, looking up and looking back. Several years flash back before you. You are no longer the person you were, or all the ones you tried to be. Everything about you is constantly shifting in place and every shift feels permanent. You regard yourself with bitterness, for you’re a person with beliefs and sexuality and traits that you know people around you will find hard to come to terms with; you regard yourself with bitterness that comes along with the realization you’re the only one who will accept yourself without hesitation or judgment.
Several years flash back before you. You realize, now, that there are things that could have been prevented, things that shouldn’t matter but do, things that should matter but don’t, things that you never thought would happen. There was no telling what would happen then and there is no telling now. You no longer trust anyone or anything, except for the fact that, after all this time, you will be okay.
I don’t believe in fates, or predestined lifetimes. I don’t believe in right people and wrong times. I don’t believe in luck. I believe in wills. I believe that, no matter how cliche it sounds, life is what you make it. I believe that you’re going to come at one point wherein you’re going to make the decision of accepting things the way they are or you continue with faith in your vision.
It’s pretty morbid, actually, how I’ve come to that mindset. I read a short horror story called Where There’s A Will when I was around ten, and the story stuck to me ever since. A man found himself buried. He crawled his way out, and though I have yet to recover my copy and refresh myself – as me as a ten-year-old didn’t particularly get the gist of everything – I remember his rants and rambles of rivalry, about how he’ll show them that this “joke” of being in a coffin was going to be turned around on them. He managed to find a gas station and called his wife, but he got hung up on in the middle of discussion.
When he turned to face the mirror, he found himself staring at a reflection of a decaying corpse, the flesh already eaten away to show bone. I remember reading about a lighter he found in his pocket, engraved with a name and the phrase, “Where There’s A Will”. He continued to look at it as the shock dawned on him.
It was the first time I admired the extent of how powerful a human being can be, and only with his will. The character was fueled by pride and vengeance.
And I’m fueled by the means to prove and improve. I believe in wills, and I believe in mine. And I will myself to be on a gradual rise to success. No matter what happens. I believe in it. And I believe that somehow, somewhat, what you believe in reflects in your actions. And so visions become realities. I believe in yours. I believe in everyone’s will, as well as the universe’s. There’s this possibility of a higher being around us and upon us, may it be God in your religion, or maybe you don’t have one – but I believe in its will. It’s the moral compass, the limit, the ever-present reminder. I believe that fighting for something as long as it’s moral and doesn’t step on others and you have the actions to back up what you envision – it will happen. Because you willed it to be.
I don’t believe in fates, or predestined lifetimes. I don’t believe in right people and wrong times. I don’t believe in luck.I believe in wills. It sounds cheesily optimistic and new age, but I believe in it. In envisioning and establishing and enacting through it, in the long run, you’ll see yourself in the place you dreamed you will be in.
Problems and doubts aren’t challenges with it, and being content with “that’s just how it is” isn’t going to work, and neither is expecting the world to revolve around you. Work with the world. Work with society. Never just settle for less than you can possibly give, or get. Choose your own fate. Predestine your own goddamn lifetime. Make the time right.
After all, the other half of the saying does say that there’s a way.
“It is interesting to observe with what singular unanimity the furthest sundered nations and generations consent to give completeness and roundness to an ancient fable, of which they indistinctly appreciate the beauty of truth.”
“…This fond reiteration of the oldest expressions of truth by the latest posterity, content with slightly and religiously re-touching the old material, is the most impressive proof of a common humanity.
All nations love the same jests and tales, Jews, Christians, and Mahometans, and the same translated suffice for all. All men are children, and of one family. The same tale sends them all to bed, and wakes them in the morning.”
– A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, Henry David Thoreau
Quote above is one of the paragraphs I’ve highlighted whilst falling in love with Thoreau himself. However, it did remind me of a certain nagging thought buried deep in my head on complications of distinctions of humankind. Skin color. Gender. Race. Religion. Distinctions that somehow puts you on some hierarchy of humanity and of value; distinctions that some seem to think as dents on an otherwise uniform and perfect truth, that some think necessary to be weeded out, when in reality, and ironically, these distinctions are simply mankind being mankind, different, evolving, changed and changing, unique, seeking out the same truth as everybody. The fight against prejudice is still not won, for that is humankind, too; or rather, what humankind has come to be, with inheritance of a deep-seated prejudice with some caught unawares of it. It’s funny, really. We curse the ones that are different from us and yet we praise the one we believe made all of us with the same lips. We curse their different ways but choose to be blind on what makes us all the same. The same tale sends us to bed and wakes us by dawn. The same questions nag at us and force us to seek answers for our own. The same joy, the same sadness, the same complexes. One humanity.
It’s all that really matters.
She’s beautiful like summer, he thinks, beautiful and tragic like summer; warm, the days with her filled with anticipation, with free-spirited excitement and adventure and comfort. Her touch is the scorching heat, her voice the call of the waves against the shore, her eyes the brightness of the yesterdays remembered and the futures to be made, her lips the escape to jungles and seas; to adventure; to anywhere; to nowhere. Her presence lingers and never stays, but there it is, her raucous laughter turning into a serene tilt of her lips; the promise of return in her smile; the cool breeze setting in as she turns to leave.
“You are not here! The quaint witch Memory sees
in vacant chairs, your absent images,
And points where you once sat, and now should be,
But are not.”
– Percy Shelley
We spin with the earth; we are no fixed collection of points. We are walking memories with memories: here one moment, gone the next, leaving nothing but recollection at best. And even then, not much of it there, and not much of it true – but that’s a bit of a delusion to be under, to be concrete truth when we continuously deny our own actions and insist on consistency. We are motion and we are temporary, and we deteriorate and decay, we no longer become recalled in their minds, and this is what scares us, I think; this is why I see writing and photography and sketches not just as art but an act of self-preservation and a means of sealing the intangible into its opposite.