Amaranth

I stood in the middle of my room today, and mused about my life, as man is wont to do at times.

I thought back on the "me" in the past, and then turned to the "me" in the present. And I was amazed. Amazed at the changes that have occurred, and scared, for the changes that I know will occur. Yet though my form, my spiritual, mental, form, my soul is fluid in the midst of Time's domain, I find myself happy for this. In the center of entropy, I find myself happier in each incarnation, a never-ending stream of emotion and consciousness. That is life, that is the antithesis of stagnation and nothingness, to experience, to feel - to be human.

I close my eyes, and I begin to run my fingers down my memories.

They brush light wood of tables I have slept on, smashed in anger, drawn upon in boredom. They are rough with glue stains from the clumsy art of making miniatures that I pursue, they are pitted with knife holes from letter-openers stuck standing in rage.

My fingers brush the miniatures, and a voice rings out in my head. "Some things in my life, I have made by my own hand." I feel each one, each a vivid memory within my mind, of hours spent underneath a dim light.

My fingers brush past my photos, my pewter statue, its rough ridges bringing a bygone loved one to my mind. "Some are gifts given." I still love each that have gifted me, with the material, and the immaterial, knowingly and unknowingly.

My fingers reach my magazines, my paraphernalia. "Some are items bought." I remember saving up for each of these, to buy, to cherish and eventually, to forget.

My fingers touch the letterbox, chock full of letters I have written to a certain love. Mixed within are stories I have weaved, tales I have created, countless notebooks used, finished, filled with unwritten words. "Some come from the heart." Each was written with a quill dripping by my souls' blood, and on them lie the stains of tears, ring the echoes of laughter. My muse would have graced me with a smile, were she not so fickle, were she here right now instead of persisting with midnight visits.

My fingers touch my books. I remember each of them. Time spent, time wasted. Not a thing studied. Everything learnt. I have laughed, cried, sang, raged, slept on, woke up to, loved, hated, feared, embraced within these stories. I have climbed to the stars, dined with devils and danced with Gods. I have fought great evil, murdered great good, tripped the light fantastic, waxed lyrical beneath the light of a dawning star. "Some come into the heart."

"And all of them, all these things which are not things, but instead, are memories. They are all - beautiful."

"And there are more to come."

Snippets

I have not been updating this. I blame it on a new influx of diaries and notebooks that have inexplicably entered my life. All that blank paper, I cannot stand seeing it empty. They scream to be written upon.

Anyway, here's some snippets.

Today I went to church, for the first time in a while, hesitant, reluctant to once again have to struggle between being CHRISTIAN-METHODIST and being human. The sermon ended, the song started playing, and the Pastor went up, speaking in a deep, tragic voice, laden with sorrow. Laced with despair.

"We live in a broken world."

And yet, I find myself thinking... "What's so wrong about that?"

You see, to me, We live in a broken world, one that God let break, on purpose. No, I am not condemning the actions of God, and even if I was, I have no right, for He is God and I am Man. But I understand perfectly why God let the world break. God created a story.

Shakespeare could have let Romeo and Juliet live in the end, let one wake up just moments before the death of the other. Orpheus could have not looked back. Orwell could have destroyed his society with the strength of human spirit. Lennie and George could have lived on a farm with alfafa.

Sometimes, when you create a story, it leaves your grasp. Sure, you can pull it back, shape it as you wish, but in doing so, you lose something. Maybe it's the storyteller in me that says this, but... If God did not let the world break, then there would be no story.

------------------------------

Today, this -

Me: "Tis but the cycle of life, the strong eat the weak. Then get turned into handbags by tool-using bipedal mammals."

AL: "I swear you're a social darwinist at heart."

Me: "How can I be a social darwinist? There's no place in the food chain for artists."

AL: "I'm sure there is... somewhere near the tramps."

--------------------------

I finally reread The Little Prince recently, now being able to fully appreciate its beauty. Damn, its beautiful.In 78 simple pages, with badly drawn illustrations and spartan vocabulary, a strange french pilot who was no critically acclaimed literary deity did what Tolstoy in was unable to accomplish in 1450 pages, that is to bring me to the point of tears.

"It is the time that you have wasted for your rose, that makes your rose so important."

"I am responsible for my rose."

"And no grown up would ever understand that this is a matter of such importance."