This is a follow up post from here
I think of Art as a word, is a necessary evil. The world needs this word and what it entails and represents more than ever. But at the same time it insinuates in slight euphemism, that it is painstaking in a tragic sense. It is an ‘effort’ put in. I wish for an ideal world, or at least some people in it, that could, for all practical purposes, make art and live with it unapologetically, for anything that might give a reason to feel art as separate from yourself, that gives an illusion that you make art.
…Diminish what you believe in and hit you in your face with what you didn’t know existed
1. Beliefs are not rubber balloons but endless stretchy space expanding and contracting. Unlike the stubborn, I believe beliefs can and should change in a graceful gradient for good. After all, they are the harbingers of living with love and peace, aren’t they? I believe beliefs should be as fluid as gender should be considered fluid, as fluid as one constantly keeps questioning one’s identity. It is the way that is meant to be.
2. I’d like to ask the writer what exact does she mean by the quoted. You’ve also told nothing about your insanity but to yourself. So you haven’t really told about your insanity as you put it.
I wish I could say love is not mad. It is mad because it is difficult to measure it, much less define it. It is mad because too much of it can feel like that friend who blabbers unimportant gibberish when she gets insecure, vulnerable or afraid of something or someone mostly by the likes of self assumption; too little of it is like the smile not shared with a stranger you happened to want to talk with on a commute or a while walking. How much would be enough, is dependent on the fact that only way we could ensure it would be is if we believe in it casually. To love enough would be to take love for granted, like your voice in your head, your thinking voice. It’s the daily routine of not being parochial. Loving enough means being mad enough to let it happen by itself, given and not minding the jarring inception of nervous breaths and slips of not expressing enough, or overdoing it. It’s mad to be a part of the world that loves, because it’s unexplainable.
I can imagine the mad man in love, because imagination is madness, and I’m a mad man.
If love aches, it’s only fair to ask — “For how long?”. How long can you mourn a loss of love or a lack thereof, before feeling universal with the fact that the crazy play of love and life and loss and death is like we’re in a dream. How long before we become sober and realise that we have to stop letting love hurt. In true love there is no heart break. A broken heart means broken demands, broken expectations and broken hopes. Separation in love could be lovingly beautiful, and longing in it picturesque.
Can you really choose to sigh in love over a throbbing chest which promises the mirage respite of guilty pleasure, that disguises as saccharine-sour-bitter keepsake, for long? For how long?
A twisted sense of reality, if of a choosing, is not madness. For it to be madness it has to be inexplicable, like life, love, birth, death, breath. It isn’t. A choice is definable. A twisted sense of reality, in one’s slightest senses, can be a device to stop letting it be an escape route from reality and instead be small lovely detours.
We do not “think” things. We do not really know who does. We just listen when a thing has been said, spoken — thought, and we choose to act on it or not, or discard it altogether. We are a witness to our own thoughts, because they aren’t really ours.
We should reward ourselves for the impeccable and irrational stream that we endure of our mind, for it is no small feat to bear so much noise for years — like enduring the smell of a toilet which hasn’t been flushed all these years but used to the fullest capacity. I think the irrevocable flow of this chatter and compartmentalisation can co-exist like the grooves that farmer digs to water the standing crop in the field — once one ‘compartment’ is fluid and full, water jumps into another. But what would be truly great is to empty those compartments for a while before the next crop is sowed, with no thoughts, no botheration in mind, chatter halted not by stopping it deliberately, but by letting it pass by, like all the loves that truly weren’t to stay.
“What truly brings us joy”, is an ever elusive question, any answer to which is always fleeting — a friend, a dog, a food item, a stationery item, your poem, a poem, a part of you that comes out like sun in Ireland — sometimes.
The day I realised I can only ever be truly happy right now, without any reason despite everything, I found that we are not our thoughts, feelings, emotions, situations — these all things change. We are the reference with respect to which we can observe all these things change. And unlike all these things, that reference doesn’t change, yet grow.
I wish I could look forward to talking to this person and talk with her for days with comfortable silences in between, with love — through our bodies as a medium — trying to make sure it oozes out as much as would be enough, to not overflow and to not lay drought ridden, like the dry pungent dregs of wine in an empty glass.