Always the hardest part about writing or about any creative practice is to start, to begin. Perhaps, writing at this moment in time has become a metaphor, or rather a proxy of my own life. To begin again, to start anew, though not completely, since the pasts are present and the memories, fragmented. To grow a tree in the cracks of the ruins that were and still are a part of you.
The world is literally burning. Wars are waged seemingly on the basis of differences, but, worse, are so for the acquisition of more resources, more land, more control, power, domination, satisfaction, pride, only to realize that land–the basis of it all–will crumble and crack under our feet and as we fall through the sinkhole of complacency and ignorance, we only see flashes of fleeting joy and, yet, still do not realize that this is all for nothing. A total destruction to no end, for no one.
We cannot be mobilized by hope, for hope is pinned upon relative comparison. Now is not good, but the future may. We do not know that. The far future, maybe, or the near one, who knows? Time isn’t linear, and I would rather be mobilized by the rituals, the repetition of the mundane, that which sustains the foundation of this world–relations, hopefully loving ones.
It may feel hopeless. It will appear to be bleak. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. We are in the bottomless and headless eel of a time tunnel, and to our death, we may never find direction, let alone an exit. Do not hope for that mythical light–make fire, create friction, so that now, at this moment of forever darkness, there are sparks, specks of brightness that reveal flashing images of who we are, or hope to be.
What would be the force that mobilize us then? Nothing.
A convenient and safe answer I could fall on is, perhaps and obviously, love. Yet, I am too bitter, and simultaneously too romantic. I do not want my commitment to love, to the yearning for a more gentle embrace, to be depended upon itself. I have yet to discover the correct word, but I could say with confidence, that even without hope, I still stand and still move, and allow myself to be moved. I wonder if this incapacity to articulate a clear answer is a consequence of my being in movement, in torment. I may be able to tell you with clarity when I could no longer move, nor mobilize. By then, there is no word to be uttered, only experiences to be felt.
Leave a Reply