Those of you who take the time and effort to read my blogs regularly, you are probably aware of the underlying themes that entwine most of the pieces published here. When they’re not about a film that inspired me or a social commentary I feel compelled to unleash upon the masses, or a simple fact of life like a birthday passing or the seasons changing, these writings show the real me. I may not tell much in spoken word, but when it comes to my friends: these black formations, I let them open me up and I let them carry the sincerity onto the page because I know they will never mock me and they will shield the blinding lights from ever finding my secrets.
I write a lot about the very basic and quintessential rules of life that I aim to grapple in vain, time and time again. Time a friend and a foe simultaneously. I write about the passing of time and the bizarreness of the concept of time and what it means in relation to my mortal existence. Naturally when time manifests its very visible existence on this earth in the form of physical transformations of plants, rivers, skies and people, I react to that. I grow almost scared and in the frighteningly honest moment I would write about the simplest human emotion. Time passing in the process becomes almost irrelevant.
The idea of an apparent paralysis of the creative vessels also often poses as a central ornament to my writings. Because I want and I cannot. There will be days when the words effortlessly fly out of me and reach the page much too careless and easy. There will be many more days when the words, to spite me, never leave my head. They lock themselves in a grid, chained at every single angle and all I can hear is them laughing at my efforts to release them. They’re bound and they seldom obey me.
There is also the theme of love that creeps in from all corners of the imagination. It stands in front of me like the deadliest trap, the most enchanting, luring, masqueraded, puzzling, shiny medal that I must never have. That I must never tame. That I must forever live without. And it makes me go crazy for it and it makes me crave it and at the same time I wish to discard it at any given chance. I dance a sacred dance around it, to mislead mostly myself, and those around me who know better than to expect me to live without.
The single most heart-shattering discovery that I have made in my short time among the human race is that love is never enough. Regardless of my willingness to open myself up, to allow a deep cut to salvage my skin, to break the flesh, to splinter the bones and reach my heart and bring it to surface, regardless of my most vivid desire to take my beating heart, this bundle of muscle and place it in the bare hands of the one I love: even that can never be enough. Love, even if objectified, cannot alone cope with the despairing human character. I stand in awe of this unbearable discovery and hold my head in astonishment that something that is so precious can have so little power. Why? Why, when if I had the know-how, I would give more than my all just to restore my long lost faith in love? The truth: love is never enough. No matter how choking the passion is. No matter how it boils over us, how it spits its fireballs over our heads: with time, love becomes paralysed.
The web-like existence of these themes connect my head with my heart with my hand. But my all can be dislodged with one unpredictable wiggle of time, with one breeze of love and with one thought of paralysis. The enigma remains and I am left to try to better myself through the only tool I know I may have. I lean on everything I have and everything I know so I am able to go on. So I am able to bear the consequences of a fruitless talent, of a loveless life, of a time tight present.
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