Kartography
I was reading a novel just now, “Kartography”, and there’s a line in that novel, which says something to the effect of,
“There’s a ghost of a dream that you don’t even try to shake free of because you’re too in love with the way he haunts you.”
It had nothing to do with what I was thinking about this morning, or this afternoon, or even this evening. But 10 seconds ago, I had an inexplicable urge to put the book down, and write something, anything, and so here I am. It made me think of things in my life, things I don’t know about. Things, people, situations, places, I don’t understand. Feelings I can’t explain. Emotions, thoughts I can’t express.
Perhaps I’m too scared. Too afraid to face what’s there. What won’t go away. Being a failure in the eyes of the world is not scary. Being a failure to yourself is. There was something else in the novel which made me think. He said that when his brother disappeared when he was younger, his only fear was that when he was found, he would be a maligned beggar, and he would have to share his room with this maligned, deformed being.
Yes, I know that’s morally, and irrepressibly wrong to think. And yet we still do. The tears in my eyes haven’t stopped falling. No one sees them. And yet, they fall. More and more everyday. I feel, but not talking about it, does that make it worse?
Someone once told me that writing down one’s feelings makes one feel better. You had better be right. Feels inexplicably odd, it does, to feel, and not know what one is feeling. Brand new emotions, bordering confusion, with deep thought, and quite a few healthy doses of contemplation. I don’t know if it’s wrong to feel like this, but for some reason, I can’t stop. I need to let this out. Mayhap it’s a bunch of complete and utter gibberish, and whosoever reads this, will look at me in a way so as to let me know that the only proper place for someone like me is, well, not with them. And yet, I can’t stop. I continue typing, as though the only saviour left for me is to continue. Just keep on going. What does that make me? Abnormal, for sure. But, it’s not odd. I can. Continue. Talking rubbish. And no one can say anything.
Where does one go when all the paths have different endings. Is love enough? Perhaps I’m done. Perhaps there will be more later. Love. Keep thinking? Helping? No? Hmmm, mayhap something new. Fresh. Different. No, I like this. Makes sense. At least, to me.
Laughing, everyone. Or, trying. Like I said, continue. One day. One day. Good way to end this. One day. La, la, la, la, la…..
“There’s a ghost of a dream that you don’t even try to shake free of because you’re too in love with the way he haunts you.”
It had nothing to do with what I was thinking about this morning, or this afternoon, or even this evening. But 10 seconds ago, I had an inexplicable urge to put the book down, and write something, anything, and so here I am. It made me think of things in my life, things I don’t know about. Things, people, situations, places, I don’t understand. Feelings I can’t explain. Emotions, thoughts I can’t express.
Perhaps I’m too scared. Too afraid to face what’s there. What won’t go away. Being a failure in the eyes of the world is not scary. Being a failure to yourself is. There was something else in the novel which made me think. He said that when his brother disappeared when he was younger, his only fear was that when he was found, he would be a maligned beggar, and he would have to share his room with this maligned, deformed being.
Yes, I know that’s morally, and irrepressibly wrong to think. And yet we still do. The tears in my eyes haven’t stopped falling. No one sees them. And yet, they fall. More and more everyday. I feel, but not talking about it, does that make it worse?
Someone once told me that writing down one’s feelings makes one feel better. You had better be right. Feels inexplicably odd, it does, to feel, and not know what one is feeling. Brand new emotions, bordering confusion, with deep thought, and quite a few healthy doses of contemplation. I don’t know if it’s wrong to feel like this, but for some reason, I can’t stop. I need to let this out. Mayhap it’s a bunch of complete and utter gibberish, and whosoever reads this, will look at me in a way so as to let me know that the only proper place for someone like me is, well, not with them. And yet, I can’t stop. I continue typing, as though the only saviour left for me is to continue. Just keep on going. What does that make me? Abnormal, for sure. But, it’s not odd. I can. Continue. Talking rubbish. And no one can say anything.
Where does one go when all the paths have different endings. Is love enough? Perhaps I’m done. Perhaps there will be more later. Love. Keep thinking? Helping? No? Hmmm, mayhap something new. Fresh. Different. No, I like this. Makes sense. At least, to me.
Laughing, everyone. Or, trying. Like I said, continue. One day. One day. Good way to end this. One day. La, la, la, la, la…..
posted by Truth at 3:48 AM
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