Posts tagged with “melancholic”
Not half the man I used to be
The time has come, the Walrus said, to think of many things. As an introvert, I always live in a protective shell and have difficulty evolving further. If there is a need of change it is always a third voice which calls for them. It is always adapting my conservative self to fit somebody requirements. Despite my wisdom and because my pride, every a such effort meets the resistance from inside as if I was squeezing a steel spring. Now not only my limitless egoism can save me from committing to a reform. For I myself am the one who is not satisfied with my own backward stance.
Sometimes I notice myself taking after House early in season 6. I spare my carelessness as if it had something to do with me being genius and special. I take infantilism as a panacea for mental aging. I still admire my schooltime achievements not having noticed myself grown out the sandbox stuff and the world moving quite a leap forward since then. I recite my sins from the past as if those haunts had more value than tales to tell grandchildren near the fireplace. No matter what I say, deep in the core, I live in past and this ultimately this should be put to an end.
When a larva undergoes a transition into an adult imago, only the nervous system is left intact. That said, it's evident that in pupa a butterfly is not made anew from scratch, but it's still a caterpillar who was given a brand new instance. If a tiny insect is capable of such a selective transition, why would I, a pinnacle of creation, be disallowed to given enough effort and desire? Jesus once told that Kingdom of Heaven can be likened to gathering fruit and tares apart on a field. I have it easier, for I have but a handful of traits worth keeping against the myriad of foul weed to root. It must only be a matter of self-discipline.
04:47 PM | Comments | Tags: public, sorrow, self-analysis, melancholic, personalOn Eyesight
It's a late night already as the light of your lamp pierces the darkness of the attic. Here I am, cowering in a corner, the easel left alone. You would approach me and hug, you sleepy and warm, with a cat resting on your shoulder. I am no weakling as a matter of fact, I have endured the incredible odds not even leaving a scratch on my resistant skin. Still, your loving touch is a cruical piece of my wellbeing's puzzle. It is what ignites me and grants power multiplied by infinity. And at the moment, I am in time of need, trembling with unrest, however still strong as a rock. I sense your sympathy as you glance into my eyes, all tired, red with blood and radiant with hysteria and craze. You pity me, but…
Your eyes are perfect. A pinnacle of sight development, they let no fine detail escape your attention. You see the world as it is supposed to be and no blur or delusion stirs your perception. Yet in all their splendor, they do lack. They trap you, binding the view to a narrow abstraction level, a grand mirage and only the tiny and subjective projection of the universe that's more commonly knowns as the real world. My optic, though not a bad one, is not even a close match to yours, however, exploiting its flaws allows me to break free of the reality prison. Impression, fantasy, dreams and hallucinations, I let them in and in a sense, I see them as realistically that sometimes I reach my hand to touch.
Alas, I cannot imbue you with the ways of my perception. You are told to be beautiful and you acknowledge this when looking in a mirror, matching your reflected image against the notion of good looks. What I mean by your beaty is far more deep than physical appearance. A symphony and a storm of colours, melodies and shapes mixed against the perception forms mankind have not invented words for, that's how I see you. What I am able to express is yet a particle of whole, but still it transcedes the photography by a great margin. I adapt my inner self to your rules and sight, essentialy bridging together the real and the spiritual. In my words, in my music, in my drawings you sense a surrealistic dream, a wounded mind's product, a glamorous nonsense. But in fact, I draw you in all your magnificence, and with time you shall realize that. That is the exactly revernce you seek in me and that is why we complement each other so nicely.
07:18 PM | Comments | Tags: self-analysis, melancholic, personal, public, philosophy, quantum physics, loveWhat if I speak riddles?
What if I pronounce red as scarlet in my mind? Would you suspect I am lying to you if I talked as pathetic as if I have just quit the pages of Renaissance-age play? How about me talking English instead of mother tongue simply out of the love for beauty, rather than some weird elitionist pretense? Have you noticed I favour for above because even in colloquial speech? Am I insincere if I handpick my little friends from dictionary to match the sound of a synonym with the timbre of emotion the soul is feeling? How come sometimes you translate a poem in though to prose in speech?
Bear with me, for that is the way I am supposed to be. The roots, in fact, are traced with ease: you take a melancholic to ensure turbulent reactions for the slightest stimuli; you grant him the artist skills, the inner sense of harmony and beauty, of style and comme il faut; season him with a good intellect and any creational abilities, no matter be it painter's eye, sculptor's fingers or engineering thought — et voilà! the dish is made. At once, that is a gift and handicap, being a potential machine of invention while being a constant riddle to the close. People eat potato every one day, but to bake, say, a complex cake, a special occasion is a promoter. Countrary to Shakespeare, nobody wants to live within the stage, while most would love to admire it. Time to time. You see where am I heading to?
Since this day I declare you, my reader, the victim of the focused fire. The sophistication of thought is a valuable trait indeed, therefore I'm not allowing it to go the way of dodo. Instead, I shall forsake this journal for no longer. Whenever I feel high, no matter the reason, I am to redirect the flow onto these very pages. Just as the water spins the wheel, will these outbursts serve better purpose rather than complicating the life of those whom I care for.
11:56 PM | Comments | Tags: melancholic, philosophy, personal, public, self-analysis