Monday, August 29, 2011

All I'm trying to convey right now is a simple idea. However, in my mind, I feel as though I'm lifting ten hundred bricks. Maybe I had forgotten how to articulate my ideas. That thought scares me. Maybe I haven't taken enough time to think through things. Yes, maybe I just haven't had enough time to think through things.

Wait, am I just trying to justify such a elusive thought? I think I know myself well enought to know... whether or not I'm just trying to escape the persecution of my own mind, being unable to elaborate on thoughts. Maybe I'm just old, and I just forgot what I was thinking about... this is somewhat frustrating and unnerving. Where are the words I've used so frequently in conversations I've had with friends or the ill forgotten words I've had with myself.

This is a minor problem... I should be able to resolve this soon. Maybe if I thought of the idea as a "madlib."

I (adjective) (noun), and (first person predicate) don't (verb) (infinitive marker) (verb) (adverb) (pronoun).

Crap... I guess that may be as innefective as writing nothing, and I guess this is something. Maybe what I'm writing is a parody of a blank thought in itself. I just read over what I just wrote... this entry is becoming a meta-thought. I should probably stop thinking now.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Of Memories

I'm perplexed of my own thoughts lately. Dissecting it's raw form, the emotions, the perceptions. I think of these memories that have everything to do within time that I've experienced - the sensations I've felt and known. I try my best to explore my own conscious thought in order to understand these things... to know myself well enough that I can speak of my soul to those who don't know me. Thinking to myself that maybe if I had all the right words I would be able to share who I truly am to the people around me.

I feel that experiences are the rawest form of memories. Some of which I don't even have the words for, or if I ever would have the words I would dare not say them in fear that I would "cheapen" such sensations. Maybe I feel as though the words would never suffice. I could maybe attempt to give in to satisfy a longing to be known, I feel the need to romanticize such notions of my experience.

These words, of memories, become symbols of thought. I'm not a writer that seeks to fashion his craft that each sentence would be a poignant and visceral expression that a friend would deeply understand, or for a stranger to know me for what little I truly have to offer them.

Memories have to do with the mind, the things that we keep in mind. I find it more difficult to remember what I ate the day before yesterday for lunch, maybe such a thing isn't important. I think that everyone needs to be reminded that they are loved, that they are sought after. I think that everyone needs to be reminded that they do love, that they do seek for more than themselves.

Memory, from latin memoria, from memor- "mindful remembering." I find that as humans, we've tried our best to control "memories." I find that we want to control every facet of our lives. When it comes to memories, I understand that we don't particularly have full control of the things we remember. In psychology, we've tried to define patterns of the things we remember. We designate the memories as "short term" and "long term" memories. We've also come to define some memories as subliminal thoughts and continually try to disambiguate these ideas to further know knowledge of ourselves. I guess, maybe if we do, we'll have better control of who we are; although, I don't think that we fully take into account the people, situations, and experiences that we do not have control over.

The things I remember. I hear myself describe some of the things that I remember as something along the lines of delightful, mundane, and frightening. Not all thoughts strike a chord or have importance in my mind or my heart. Of these things, the one category of memory that I do find important is love. I think everyone has their own experience of love. That everyone has an understanding of it, so much so that their philosophy is engrained in who they are, how they wish to be loved. In this case I speak of love in a broad sense, as I don't wish to write about love just it's bearing of it in my mind.

The notion of love to me, in my mind (and in my heart) is so profound. It's an idea so strong that the thought of it is intuitive that I'm inclined to find pleasure in it. I feel that it demands to be remembered, as though love in my mind was alive, that love in itself has cognition, that love chooses and acts according to it's will. When I remember, when I keep in mind the ones I love I am compelled to act- to react to such a beautiful thought.

The Disappearing Lines

The idea of disappearing lines is a tecnique in art used to convey a sense of perspective. Where lines converge and diverge in itself is the most important part. Our minds are tricked into percieving something that does not exist. That there's depth to a picture. Whatever this idea is of, we're only able to be familiar with these lines because there's a larger idea in our minds that takes presidence over it. It gives us understanding beyond the plane of what our eyes percieve. It's the work of our minds, the interpretation of data... it's just "disappearing lines."

I could only think of this idea when trying to explain such a haitus in my writing. There's no idea I was willing to share because these lines would not meet. There was no horizon that came of these, there was no definite perspective to be sought. There was nothing.

Because ther seemed to be nothing for a long time. I stand to reason with myself that in life, there is no such thing as "nothing," as when I think, there is "something." It's somewhat ironic to me that I could easily devalue my thoughts as nothing, or as something seemingly unimportant. I wont assume that each thought that I have is unrelatable or irrelevant to anyone. Maybe there are just some thoughts, I think, aren't worth sharing. I guess they would reflect a more intimate thought about me. But there are many things about me that aren't complete.

So, here I am, writing about nothing wishing I had more disappearing lines.