So am I a writer? This question orbits me. Coming true, always come and gone. Is it a waste of time? Repetitively asking the same existential dilemma for answers. I’m starting not to believe in this church of doubt. This skyscrapper of who cares. The empire of what ifs.
Well. Theres a degree of responsibility behind it. Asking for proof that we are responsible, that we can depend on the ship called writing, to handle the waves called doubt. To trust the compass called time will eventually lead us back to shore. They say that ships are safest in harbors, but that’s not what they were built for. Maybe doubt is apart of the expedition. A necessary part of getting fish. The ship of dreams is safer in harbor, but it was built to sail. Risk, nothing is valuable without it. And thats ok. Let that fear in daily life be spent building something structurally sound rather then numbed. Luck will get us so far, but better to bet on craftsmanship then faith.
There is a certain soundness in the eye contact, dont loose it for anything. Never sell a tree for a forest. Cause if everyone lived that way we would have no trees left.
Love feels like home.
Pulling back the lense is also pulling it closer. How Berlin brought me to Dunbar. Australia to Pacific Spirit. Israel to Aphrodities. The greatest ache to stay is when we realize we are destined to leave. Time is the one gift that comes and goes. Rewind. Fast forward. But its always there.
This window view is so idyllic. So how do i transfer this to my writing? Im trying to mimic it. To become the beauty. To let these words be that. I am demotivated. It all feels like try and fail. Maybe thats fine. Writing has become a degree in micromanagement. Where is the sense of play? Of joy? Its creative, but has become a sport of all rules and no play. No going for it. Trying to be read, insightful, deep. Archetypal writing. Standing on the shoulders of giants, now their knees and backs hurt. Their ankles bruised and battered. All cause I wont get off. Attached to the view. Of being tall. Of being young. The sways. The routine, the f*ck routine, thin, gluttonous, cheap, splurging. Ive sang those songs, and theres so many that others have sung which I havent. So much I may not get to. The beauty and tragedy is that its all our fate.
A perfect moment. Perfection is infinite. Its sacred. Its diverse. Its one of many, but its rare and few. Its everywhere, but it is avoidable, mistakable, and the other side of it is regret. The other side of the coin.
Its in the shop, you can buy it, wear it, own it – but it does have a lifespan. It will transform from perfection to background. From redwood to soil. To yesterday, then eventually last year. To old photographs. Atleast the old photographs can be perfection twice. Touching the unbuyable past. Your addictions are your attempts to buy the past. Missing the perfection below your nose, all just to buy a second chance. Today’s decisions are just to redeem yesterdays missed opportunities. Those slight misses, those insignificant pains. Those it doesnt matter much moments. Turns out they do. Turns out its all that did matter. The ones we forget, they cant be forgotten. Cant be lost or deleted.
My idea of perfection is a dot on a globe. Trying to capture a fleeting feeling. Im over it. Its not real anymore. Not honest. Represents cultures want for ease and relax. A moment of painlessness. Yet nature isnt that. Nature truth is life and death. Hard and easy. The beauty of life exists within the bubble of challenges, uncertainty.