It has been a while since I last felt like putting ink on paper for anyone other than myself. In the end, why should I be bothering? Indeed, I thought, quite selfishly, that writing was an intimate source of pleasure and awakening. Hence, why would one want to keep sharing endless streams of wording and spare uncertainties circa how this whole charade of lexicon will ultimately be received? Alas, in thinking so, I was a cretin.
There’s hardly more immense joy for a writer - other than writing - than being read. It’s not necessarily ego. It is communion. It is oneness, and it is that which links us and intertwines our lives into a universal unicum. One cannot paraphrase joy into precise words. Some writers are better than others, particularly poets, but words, primarily when written, are sadly a rather dull tool. Still, we grip ourselves to this tool because we are frightened to know and feel with our innermost self, so we choose the mind - there is no map charted for this journey. Yes, because such a journey is, and must be, utterly personal. Unique to each of us. Some paths may look alike, yet none fully match - nor perfectly overlap in their entirety.
I want to write more for you, just as much as for myself. Writing and writing, in the neverending pursuit of foolishly trying to sharpen a hopelessly dull tool apt to curve the infinite planes of life - but just like one of my favourite quotes recites: “Those who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do”(*). So, where is the world going? How can we change it for the better? Well, I am afraid we can’t change the world unless we change ourselves first. We live and die, for the most, following the heavy precepts bestowed on our shoulders by our beloved ones, society, religion, profession, spouses, social media, and the occasional bystander screaming at his iPhone in rage to some customer care agent - aren’t we silly creatures?
Do you wonder why one should care about finding reason in daily chaos? Truth is that truth is not found with reason. Truth is in ourselves and in nature only. Ironically, truth is within everyone’s grasp, albeit ever so unreachable. As we start deeming ourselves intellectuals, a tragedy unfolds, and we doom ourselves into an endless merry-go-round of thoughts, theories, opinions and cacophonies that only we can hear, like a terrified audience of one, tortured by some sort of so-called intelligence. Life has hidden its most precious treasures in silent forests, in the sea hymns blasting out from the waves crashing onto high Atlantic cliffs, and in the smile of a stranger, in the spiralling pistils of sunflowers and in the vapour of that very white cloud hovering above your head.
We must live, not to survive, but to live, live, live, mightily and joyously as a continuum of what we are: a part of the infinite. As we look after ourselves, we look after everything that there is, plants, rocks and others like us, humans, people: legends, cunts, greats, stupids, saints and villains, heroes and thugs, prostitutes and popes, politicians and nurses, white, black, yellow, purple and every shade that there is, every specie of that sycophantically awesome race that we are. So stand up and go for a run, stop smoking, at least for some time, pile new books by your desk and read them all cover to cover, travel, dance, cook, love and love big. You’ll see that the scale of life always tilts back to even. Don’t be afraid. Do everything you can now. Tomorrow will be better.
(*) 1997 Apple campaign “Think Different”.