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Definitions
7 December 2009 16:25If you look for evidence that you are a loser, you will find it. If you look for evidence that you are a winner, you will find it.
This is why some people go insane.
Because all theories are supported. The glory of a direction is faced with the responsibility of our perception. We are the fuel in our own engines. We can pull up or dive. I’m talking about self-determination in the grandest sense and the crisis of identity that comes about when one realizes that one is truly free to pick a path. When one realizes that the state of one’s life is truly no one’s fault and that it can be made better or worse immediately, a clash starts inside. A huddling, a cowering, a shiver of terror. A refusal to rise and be better than you are. Or conversely, a refusal to go to darker places.
The exploration of the self leads to one inescapable conclusion. We are much too complex and fluid to be defined. This is why the search is the definition.
Love is hard to put into words because all of our hearts are ESL.
The language of love is as plain as a sunrise. It burns up entire rooms during civilized tea parties. It takes banal sentences and makes balloon animals out of them. Love is a creature wired directly into our minds and bodies. It bypasses all attempts at codification. It is merely obvious.
I feel that as one gets older, one climbs up, out of the experience of life and into an overview. I feel that this is the beginnings of wisdom. I feel that some milestone birthdays are prisms for this. Nets, filters, sifters. 30 is like that. I imagine 50 will be as well.
So when I turn thirty and I try to define love for myself and the direction I’m headed in, I am at a loss for words. I feel more like a garden than a man. My attempts become bullet holes in the roof of the church, letting in the rain.
tags
This is why some people go insane.
Because all theories are supported. The glory of a direction is faced with the responsibility of our perception. We are the fuel in our own engines. We can pull up or dive. I’m talking about self-determination in the grandest sense and the crisis of identity that comes about when one realizes that one is truly free to pick a path. When one realizes that the state of one’s life is truly no one’s fault and that it can be made better or worse immediately, a clash starts inside. A huddling, a cowering, a shiver of terror. A refusal to rise and be better than you are. Or conversely, a refusal to go to darker places.
The exploration of the self leads to one inescapable conclusion. We are much too complex and fluid to be defined. This is why the search is the definition.
Love is hard to put into words because all of our hearts are ESL.
The language of love is as plain as a sunrise. It burns up entire rooms during civilized tea parties. It takes banal sentences and makes balloon animals out of them. Love is a creature wired directly into our minds and bodies. It bypasses all attempts at codification. It is merely obvious.
I feel that as one gets older, one climbs up, out of the experience of life and into an overview. I feel that this is the beginnings of wisdom. I feel that some milestone birthdays are prisms for this. Nets, filters, sifters. 30 is like that. I imagine 50 will be as well.
So when I turn thirty and I try to define love for myself and the direction I’m headed in, I am at a loss for words. I feel more like a garden than a man. My attempts become bullet holes in the roof of the church, letting in the rain.
tags