"Who even knows where it all started. Where the flame to continue the light and obscure desire for constant movement started. There has always been a fear of static inside, a slow and painful drip of never being susceptible to the contentment of any slight, insipid aspect of existence. The towering waves of magnetism, always pulling, prying, twisting, making it virtually impossible to settle inside of my own skin - my own blood, boiling at the thought of any definitions to - what I have found - such a wonderfully indestructible "gray-area" that is often ignored. Such audacity to believe that terms of human complication can possibly fall under categories of black and white, right and wrong, good and evil, goals and failure, responsibilities and apathy - strategically placed by those who no longer breathe.
Without the awareness that the mind is nothing that has ever been set in stone - varying with the individual. Yet, the questioning of this apparent "normal" continues to remain in dark places, with no lights, and a downwards look from the society that believes being born means being accepting. To listen, to understand, to over-see and analyze the lies is nothing but giving in [and up] before I have seen enough of this life to decide all these decisions based upon my findings, treasures, storms and massacres - defined by me and not by Webster.
As it seems, very little people often understand, utilize or appreciate the biggest gift that any will ever receive while breathing. Which is the emptiness, the dark holes, blank canvases - the unwritten pages, the undetermined words, the energy and possibilities of the moments that we are blessed [and cursed] with. What is this gift? It is...nothing.
Nothing, which happens to "be" a vague and empowering [or devastating] word, is simply the gift that someone created for the humans who found themselves developing along with a world that never intended for us to survive. This Nothing is Everything. It is the ultimate tool to become, fully.
Which always boils down to the same question that I continue to ask myself - time after time. With the delicate coils of the brain, with the astonishing importance of synapse timing and accuracy - how can anything, anything at all, ever mean the same to every person. There are people who see Red when the object is Blue. Someone, somewhere, took this - defined it - scientifically proved it. However, what if this person who has been deemed color blind, actually believes their eyes. That, since birth, Red has always been Blue to them - they like the ocean being a majestic red and the sky seems much rosier with this light-pink tint that they have accustomed with daily weather and not just the oohs and ahhs of each sunset. What of the people who find filth, morbidity, and disgust as actual objects of incomparable beauty?
Why was it ever necessary to find a "medium" for all individuals to abide by and expected to understand? Is it not the differences in each person we meet, that draws us to them? The desire to learn, grow, and obtain other ideas, knowledge and opinion that may be far-fielded from our own but are just as reasonable?
It is those, and will always be, those people - the ones who do not shadow the rest but only slightly gleam with a different hue of color - who will stretch the rules, defy and question. Not to rebel - but to only be, as they wish. The smallest prick can cause a fury of blood. Fear is to always be acknowledged - but the courage to overlook this fear, will never create anything except an extended innocence. And it is this innocence, this lack of impurity, that will keep hearts from ever thinking that anything is possible. To once accept the possibility of failure is to tell a child that Neverland does not exist. Beginning the downfall of imagination and the emphasis on uncovering the dreams that should be nothing separate from reality.
--- I guess, in all of this 3 hours of sleep in 2 days, in all the wanderings that I have found my mind lost in, in the inconsolable realizations of watching myself sink into an unsettling settlement of apathy --- I have concluded....
That I am not afraid of any moments ahead, beyond, or seemingly far away. But that I will only create my own world....
And from reading the life of Chanel, it has made me question the importance of lies and truth. Lies are linked with wrong, with deceit, with hurt. But to me, lies can be apart of a person's world. How they want it. By chance, could it be these imperfections, these re-arrangements, that bring people into the very essence of their dreams - stretching and contorting the stars into your very own constellation.
To brand this world, the only impact worth making is that upon yourself, and those that will smile at your spirit as they see it pass them from time to time. The only impression worth making will be the way that you describe your wrinkles, scars, and wisdom. The only life worth making is the one.......of your own.
