Posts tagged with “sorrow”
Deer in the Headlights
Thanks goes to Ina Branco for the inspiration.
Right to the lightless heart of night I drove:
Not to waste an instant have I had a right.
And as the road lead me through the grove,
A silhouette ahead have caught my sight
It was a doe I saw, young, tall and fair,
All clad in glamour, the forest's rose —
With eyes blinded by my headlight flare,
In tracks directly on my path she froze.
And so did very time then freeze as well,
It came to stand as if it was made to show
Me the glimpse of animal's dire awe in swell
One slice of moment before the blow.
The fawn was standing still, bereft of fear,
In bold acceptance with her tragic lot,
Emotionless, despite death approaching near,
It was not in motion she was caught.
Deer, said I, please make your leave,
You'll stay unscathed if you step away!
Speed's high: an impact won't let you live,
It is too late for car to change its way.
But nothing was my answer, just her eyes
Have closed to show that fate was sealed,
Like if our touch would her award some prize,
For that, the pain would not make her yield.
The time grew bored, reluctant it went on
Foreseenably the contact was brief indeed,
In fearsome maw of doom my doe was thrown,
The car had got nothing but a minor skid.
Involountary hangman, had I then to halt
And seek her out, yet maybe still alive?
My hurry whispered that suicide's not my fault,
I've shed a tear and kept on my drive.
You are my theme for a dream
And thus I have sinned. I fail to keep the distance. You are becoming less and less abstract with each passing hour. You, my beacon of fantasy, you the a priori unreachable dream. With trembling heart I am to witness illusion fuse with fact, the sanity vows for action while the feeling is left paralyzed. Patch by patch, the fairy fleshes, filling the perception gaps and correcting the wrong guesses.
Should I watch the muse succumb to the mortal coil, move on and paint another face on the banner of mine? May it be nobler in the mind if I let the word lose and let the vibrant feeling violently crush against subjectively unfortunate reality? Being a man is all about taking the risks and the responsibility, but how is it even remotely wise to charge headlong into the realm of certain impossibility where all slightest chances have long withered? Yet I dare. Yet I do dare to dream at night. I dream and sincerely I can't help it. Yes, I have sinned.
I will not allow myself backstabbing what little relationship we may still have for no reason. I'm mad, but I ain't no fool. Given a spare world, I just would love to have been in love with you, no matter what future holds for us.
04:18 | Comments | Tags: public, personal, madness, relationship, love, sorrow, imagination, dream, questionThe Philatelist
Some time ago, I visited the house of my grandmother's sisters. It's a century old building with garden, right in the heart of Bila Tserkva city, a standing guardian of old times flanked with newly built modern wannabe-skyscrapers. It's ancient, it have been long falling victim to corrosion. Moreover, one would say, this hut has to be razed at once to give place for the new generation of housing, better ones in any reasonable respect. Yet, in my idealistic eyes, it stands as one beacon of romance, as a memorial to times which came to pass but bore the diversity of feelings which evaded my soul. Times and pictures I never passed through my perception for real, still ones I hunger to experience. This is just a same burst of emotion as when seeing an old castle: the lifeless rocks serve no real purpose anymore but a basis to build an imaginary panorama on.
I have yet so hear this from a professional psychologist, but naïve socionical tests give me a trio of psychotypes: schizoid, hysteroid and sensitive. In simple words, this means that I seek sharp images and impressions in life, but also have an ability to augment them to insane sizes and proportions inside my mind. Must admit, this is not untrue. This is why I have a deep love-hate relationship with vintage photos. Give me one and I will be trapped, sucking the impressions out of it and reconstructing the feelings an observer would have back then while realizing that world being long gone. In fact, any strong picture would do. An infant crowning his deceased bride in an attempt to restore her honour. Two young lovers crossing sights near the sea to declare their mutual feelings. A young emperor claiming the independence of a newly founded state from his own royal bloodline. Interestingly, I would not like to be in their shoes, it's just an overall image and associated feelings I admire. Werd' ich zum Augenblicke sagen: Verweile doch! du bist so schön!. This kind of relationship with reality. Guess I never associate myself with an actor, but much rather a scriptwriter or director. Sometimes I fail to instantiate myself as a living person but not an abstract third person observer. I have a picture on my phone reminding I'm a human. It's silly of me, but the thing works like a charm, effectively being a cold slap right into the mind carried away.
That said, this highlights a dangerous psychological trait in me I should be wary of. Whenever I am set ablaze by any an obsessive idea, what is it as a matter of fact? Is this something I may swear allegiance to or just a mantle I wish to try on for a delicious momentary emotion complex? So far, both options have been happening. Thus, importantly, when I will name her my life companion, it this a true willingness of making an long term bond, or is it just me, thinking a photo of us together would look neat?
12:45 | Comments | Tags: public, personal, self-analysis, relationship, socionics, psychology, rust, sorrow, imaginationNot 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 | Comments | Tags: public, sorrow, self-analysis, melancholic, personal