19 May 2009

looking up.

**This was written nearly a week ago and shelved, but after a mild debate, I have decided to post it.

It has been a few days since I've really had anything to say, and though I sit here with a mind full of ideas, fears, hopes, I still find it difficult to express this bundle of emotion. I wish for things to be simple- for black and white to be the rule- but it isn't that way at all. I did think yesterday that one can manipulate the rule of law by simply controlling the evolution of a language, but in retrospect this would take a rather large group of people a rather long time. The limits of words are defined only by their use, which is ever-evolving, and the determination of which defination to be used is almost always contrived from the context and tone in which it is spoken- since, written word can only address one of these (though story-telling can address both) and therein lies the problem.

I have frequently thought of myself as an outsider. I can say with modest shame that I have never really felt as though I belonged anywhere my feet stood, nor in the company of others I've called friends. I merely arrive at some level of comfort with the places and people, so that the discomfort of not belonging only tinges like white-noise (though, for me, that is as bad as nails on a chalkboard, or the high pitched hum from a t.v.). I have learned to live in discomfort, learned to live with the aching misery that has accompanied me since the last time I was happy (I cannot clearly remember that time). So, when the shimmer of a long forgotten feeling catches the eye of the wearied traveler, quickly he becomes filled with hope and forgets his misery. But, lucky for him, there are people around to remind him of the tinged satchel slung over his shoulder- but for comfort he does not lay it down, if only because he hasn't reached the spot of shimmering hope. Perhaps he thinks that shimmer is just the leprechaun's pot of gold to disappear at the last moment, or he is just used to the satchel on his back , maybe he has become dependant on it. (yikes!) Either way, the hope that lingers in my eye is mine to spark into a fire or douse with water. Thank you, my friends, for your warm concern for my future, but the language you speak is farsi to me, and I won't concern myself with learning that language.

Amazing how those who say things happen for a reason are always the quickest to tell you you're making a mistake, when all you're really doing is putting your trust in a higher power.

No comments:

Post a Comment