100 posts, none the wiser
100 posts, 100 stories, stories about promises, hopes, heartbreaks, betrayals, forgiveness, loss, sisters, sisters lost, sisters regained, lovers lost, lovers found, lovers true, lovers not.
And people.
People coming, people going, people hating, people loving, people living, people leaving.
And me writing.
Keeping a log of all that happened, a virtual memory of all that took place, a friend of mine once said, your little archive will be a treasure trove, in years to come. When memories play tricks on oneself, and one is no longer sure how or why do we remember certain things in certain ways.
Memory is a funny thing.
We isolate time and space in a complete separate dimension and we keep fine tuning whatever it is that took place, once upon a time.
Make it a little lighter, make it a little darker, magnify this, zoom out on that.
And our view, from where we stand, our perception of the people and everything that happened with, around and involving these people drastically changes.
Our eye is at once more forgiving, maybe less loving, sometimes longing.
And I long and I long, like one friend once said.
And while some memories are worth saving from the ravages of Time, as they say, I am amazed by the rate and scope of change enveloping everything around me.
Including this little, cozy, fictional space.
And I am still amazed by the universal, indomitable desire, or rather instinct to relate, to connect.
Whether it ends up in meaningful, proper relationships, or passing, bizarre, awkward sex.
The people and myself mentioned in this blog have all persisted in the ceaseless quest to find this meaningful relatedness. Or substantial or deep or any other adjective that conveys the meaning.
And while it was fraught with all kinds disappointments, setbacks, horrors and loss it never stopped me or them.
I and them have been subjected, due to the context we are situated in, the precarious context we have to work from within to without, to all kinds of challenges.
And its not just reduced to lovers and beloveds, its tenacious and it pervades every kind of human arrangement I can think of.
We, I and them, have not just lost lovers and sex partners, no.
We, I and them, lost friends, family members, jobs, careers, homes, our very own sense of security, of believing that we are allowed the right to peaceful existence like everyone else.
And while navigating the routes of this precarious context, I was embarking on a whole different journey in cyberspace.
Both mired in awkwardness, eccentricity and a strange, pathological morbidity.
I never could truly explain.
I never stopped trying! And unlike what some unforgiving readers like to say, its not extolling the virtues of melancholy and self-defeat.
Or writing a record of personal glory.
But who in their right mind would refuse such an opportunity to share this intimate experience with an anonymous reader?
I am grateful to my anonymous reader, for the very fact his/her reading mitigating the severity of the awkwardness and the harshness of the morbidity.
It has been two years, and they were filled with stories, narratives, of all kinds, and while there are many people, very dear to myself, now long gone, and no longer part of this awkward world, I have these 100 posts to revisit, again and again whenever I miss them.
And people.
People coming, people going, people hating, people loving, people living, people leaving.
And me writing.
Keeping a log of all that happened, a virtual memory of all that took place, a friend of mine once said, your little archive will be a treasure trove, in years to come. When memories play tricks on oneself, and one is no longer sure how or why do we remember certain things in certain ways.
Memory is a funny thing.
We isolate time and space in a complete separate dimension and we keep fine tuning whatever it is that took place, once upon a time.
Make it a little lighter, make it a little darker, magnify this, zoom out on that.
And our view, from where we stand, our perception of the people and everything that happened with, around and involving these people drastically changes.
Our eye is at once more forgiving, maybe less loving, sometimes longing.
And I long and I long, like one friend once said.
And while some memories are worth saving from the ravages of Time, as they say, I am amazed by the rate and scope of change enveloping everything around me.
Including this little, cozy, fictional space.
And I am still amazed by the universal, indomitable desire, or rather instinct to relate, to connect.
Whether it ends up in meaningful, proper relationships, or passing, bizarre, awkward sex.
The people and myself mentioned in this blog have all persisted in the ceaseless quest to find this meaningful relatedness. Or substantial or deep or any other adjective that conveys the meaning.
And while it was fraught with all kinds disappointments, setbacks, horrors and loss it never stopped me or them.
I and them have been subjected, due to the context we are situated in, the precarious context we have to work from within to without, to all kinds of challenges.
And its not just reduced to lovers and beloveds, its tenacious and it pervades every kind of human arrangement I can think of.
We, I and them, have not just lost lovers and sex partners, no.
We, I and them, lost friends, family members, jobs, careers, homes, our very own sense of security, of believing that we are allowed the right to peaceful existence like everyone else.
And while navigating the routes of this precarious context, I was embarking on a whole different journey in cyberspace.
Both mired in awkwardness, eccentricity and a strange, pathological morbidity.
I never could truly explain.
I never stopped trying! And unlike what some unforgiving readers like to say, its not extolling the virtues of melancholy and self-defeat.
Or writing a record of personal glory.
But who in their right mind would refuse such an opportunity to share this intimate experience with an anonymous reader?
I am grateful to my anonymous reader, for the very fact his/her reading mitigating the severity of the awkwardness and the harshness of the morbidity.
It has been two years, and they were filled with stories, narratives, of all kinds, and while there are many people, very dear to myself, now long gone, and no longer part of this awkward world, I have these 100 posts to revisit, again and again whenever I miss them.
Comments
Some of us take pictures, some of us are not so pictorial, or rather paint pictures with words.
I find it much easier to write then to "paint" or "take photos".
Not to mention that somethings can not be possibly captured on camera!!
Some of us understand the world around them through words, and for me the more I write, the more I understand.
We all want a witness, something or someone that reminds us of who we are and how we have been.
This is a testimony to that.
Not all of us are lucky to have someone be our witness.
Some of us have to write it down.
Rather than being a partner with someone?
Or, a result from thinking that this individual, she is important, and she must live beyond her immediate physical presence?
Self-importance? or Loneliness?
I hope I am the not first, and I never claimed to be the latter.
It must be a mixture of both.
Loneliness and self-importance.
While God created pairs so we won't go through life lonely and desolate, and I am not putting a predestined divine interpretation to it, but its an idea in my head, maybe if we are not "paired", we seek these alliances no matter how transitory to fulfill this need.
And maybe I create an illusionary, transitory alliance between me and an anonymous reader, in a virtual, random space, that takes out part of the loneliness and in turn gives a more immediate, even if temporary, feeling of intimacy or relatedness (the morbid queen is not so alone after all).
I believe in the ego, in a very Jungian sense, the basic desire to live, it can be expressed in many ways, some negative, some positive but this force is there nonetheless. And what constitutes this force is one fundamental element, which is to relate, and connect and communicate.
I am not dressing a inflated sense of self in a more humane guise (who would blame me if I do?), but without moralizing unnecessarily, in an attempt to give an honest and fair reading to what I write, there is a strong sense of the need to communicate and create those temporal, virtual kinships, and there is a strong awareness of the Self, I hope not in a negative Freudian way!!