aSas

On the topic of talking to her and deciding I could take on the entire world in that single instance:

WHAT UP HOMES I FEEL YOU ON HOW YOU FEEL BUT YOU GOTTA GET OVER IT YA KNOW

Whenever I hear a particular guitar strumming it tends to make the waves in my heart move a little bit stronger and recede a little bit slower, each time its coming and going uncovering more memories I wanted to bury in the sands of forgetfulness. A chord here, a smile there. A strum here, a laugh there. There I am were at my best; thinking back on it makes me feel worse. In a quiet melody I see traces of faint memories I would like to leave behind. Time capsules or disgraced mementos, buried treasure or hidden traumas: unearthing history brings out the best and worst in all of us.

(What the fuck, you're too young to be so sentimental at your age. You know this, right?)

I'm old enough to know the more pressing issues of life but still too young to be completely rooted in the process. Questions without answers without knowing who or what is testing you; it's a terrifying thing to be involved in. The consequential anxiety derived from this awkward point in my life drifts silently in my conscience mind, with whispers of the precariousness nature of life always shaking my soul, keeping me from sleep. Growing up means recognizing just how infinitesimally small our understanding of life is, how our so-called boundless imaginations cannot even scratch the surface of the underlying tapestry of this world we're bounded to. To be knowledgeable is to realize that essentially you know nothing of the circumstances you're thrown in.

You don't think that's a petty way of looking at things? And even if you were to think in this way then why would you care so much about finding more about this world?

Despite the fact that everything bound by this realization should be rendered small, inconsequential, and especially insignificant I cannot escape the strangle of certain memories of attempting to define the boundaries of my soul; their fingers clasp tightly around the neck of my subconscious. The white light of fires I don't want to revive smolder in the unlit corners of what I believe to be my mind. They are the now incorporeal refuse of a dream that will never substantiate itself, now simply ghosts that dance around the delineation of my nostalgia and regret. I grasp at their ethereal tails only to have them slip between the cracks of my fingers, mocking my very human attempts to confine something much bigger than me. And yet I still try to conquer them so, with the verve of Alexander the Great without realizing that his greatness is simply our own device and creation and in the greater scheme of the universe he is an atom like the rest of us.

So?

So what I'm attempting to get at is that there is something much bigger that seems to propel us through life, some synapse or function within the brain operating ourselves in a machine, a complex to which we as cogs will never be able to fully comprehend. We see our gears rotating, the gears rotating with us, but will we ever see what the heck we're propelling in our efforts? Nope, no, nunca, never. C'est la vie, such is life.

Okay then.

Okay then. Back to the point of this: our pursuits in life are simply attempts at understanding what is what, or deluding us into thinking so. Or maybe it really is a way of comprehending what all of it means. It's the processing of a metonym: using constituents to define the very structure it composes. It's a gigantic jigsaw puzzle where we're using the corner pieces to guess the whole picture, and who the heck knows we may be right. David took down Goliath. Maybe within the puny scopes of our understanding we can define the impossible, who's to say. There's been stranger things in life.

What was my attempt anyway? My alchemy was love, or the defining of, as a means to understand what life was about. It is the will of the youth defy life through transfigurations; it is the will of the old to defy life through acceptance. By attempting to define the question is the route I took; by accepting life as unstable is the act of defiance you took. But back to the topic at hand. I tried so hard to understand her, and I learned a lot about her, but I never really understood the depth of her. I never felt that I really knew the essence of her. What she was continued to elude me constantly.

What was worse still was what I thought would be an anchor to hoist myself down in the chaos of life ended up being unraveling my understanding of self even more. I'd see my reflection in her eyes and obsess over whether it was really "me" talking to her, or the "me" that was just accustomed to her personality. What in turn was supposed to be a process of understanding ended up throwing my perception further into chaos. Trying to soak in the reality of this world only eluded my senses further. I don't understand how someone can define life on such uncertain terms such as love and truth, virtue and meaning.

I think the root of your disillusionment is that you guys didn't end on good terms.

...

...Maybe you shouldn't worry so much.

...

...And try to sleep more.

(notes on a therapy session between a self and his self 10 years into the future)