The last burden

 These past decades, as I have found myself sinking deeper and deeper into an ever expanding mire, the one shield I would feebly offer against the relentless blows of reality was a quiet retort: yes, I may not have amounted to much of anything in the personal or professional, but at least there is one true thing I have known and loved, and that is writing. Knowingly futile it may have been, but better than than a quiet whimper; the sense that there was the possibility of another life was a powerful one, and the fact that this counter life hinted at a deeply noble enterprise could only help matters.

Imagine my pleasant surprise, then, upon reviewing a piece of writing of mine from some years ago — a rare instance when I forced this idealised nobility to manifest itself in reality, rather than living forever in the comfortable fortress of my imagination. One would of course expect that manifestation to have its impurities, no matter the author; we are but human, and if really we ever managed to perfectly capture these images in our mind, then what incentive would there be to keep at this enterprise? The phantom of the ideal always hovers in the horizon,  tantalising and inspiring in equal turns. What I found, however, was not just another instance of rough beauty with the possibility of being something greater; but rather, a complete and utter mediocrity, the very apotheosis of whatever fiction I had held about my thoughts and dreams being something noble and deep. Indeed, this banal retelling of whatever trite problems were plaguing my life at the time seem now, with the passing of the years, a complete triviality without even the embers of something greater. (Better that the words be put to some use and fed to actual embers.)

At one level, it is of course a matter of disappointment that this promptly punctures the perennial dream of one day sitting down and starting in earnest the great project of my life, that is, writing a great novel that summarises all that which I have felt, thought, and dreamed. No, such an idle dream would be mercilessly savaged should it make contact with reality, given that the writing I mentioned is something produced at a rare break in life when I had endless stretches of time to do with as I pleased.

At the same time, it is actually a relief to have this final disillusionment. For now I can face life unencumbered, without restraint; no more do I need to hold back, out of fear of losing something I thought to be precious and in need of protection. Now that I have seen that this was another illusion, I have nothing more that it can take from me. And so now at last, without any load to carry, maybe I can look at the mire and tell it: I do not fear you, for that which is empty cannot sink. And with that, perhaps I can start to make my way out into a dreamless world, chasing only the sky.