I've come to realise that I've always put too much faith in what people tell me. Much grief has been caused from the belief that words imply meaning, that statements reflect intention. Whether violations of these beliefs were from flippancy or a genuine ignorance, I don't know. But I know now to place no faith in assured proclamations that I'm told in utmost confidence.

When, as now, I reflect on alternate timelines, I am struck by the desire to bring up those words to the accused, and ask: did you ever really mean them? If not, I wish someone told me; I wouldn't have stayed up so many nights in worry, and could have done other things with my time. Maybe then I wouldn't have felt the need to escape, and seen false hope in a fresh start that took from me more than I thought I had. It's not the giving I take objection to -- it's the giving when there was no need, when there was no value placed on it, when there will never be any acknowledgement of a sacrifice of self. Knowing no that no arbiter takes note of one's selfless acts, except perhaps to damn you further should they be performed unquestioningly, I wonder just how much is owed to those youthful errors.

It's a cruel irony that others seem to have reached my epiphany much earlier, because in my own time of need, there's no one to listen to these words. Now that everyone's world is brighter, and the struggles deemed but memories of a past to be forgotten, I seem to be no longer needed. So I sit trying to sort through these memories and regrets, because I don't remember what else there is to do. As soon as the thought of reaching out surfaces, it is flattened by reality -- no one wants to go back to something they deliberately left behind. I didn't realise it at the time, but I now see what my station was -- a collector of nightmares, insecurities, and sorrows, one who relieved the sufferer of their malady by bravely wearing their problems on my own crown. It was only when I realised that the words of thanks were as hollow as those of torture that I started to feel the weight.

What use in saying more? That is how it is. Newly enlightened, I can only shake my fists at ghosts who will never haunt me again, no matter how much I taunt them.

Happiness is
An empty sky
To mirror not
Your eyes.
The very thought
And sleep no more
From moon to black
Sunrise.

Are You Ready To Be Heartbroken?

It feels slightly awkward to watch the watcher -- especially one who is good at his craft and whose observational skills are the result of years of tireless practice, rather than a common charlatan like yours truly. But I was struck by a certain sadness in his performance which seems worth exploring.

I was conditioned to feel so, I think, by his comments about how this could be his last attempt at reaching to an audience that the numbers say simply isn't there. It was halfway through the show, when he exhaled in earnest after another crowd-pleaser and looked kindly upon the few score of us who were very pleased indeed, that I started wondering to myself (yes, would that this endless chatter inside cease if only for a minute) -- how did it all come to this? Not that the place or the people were anything less than reputable, you understand, but simply that, one can't help but feel that he is owed more. Comparison is a dangerous beast, but sometimes a useful one -- my mind went back to seeing his compatriot in spirit only a few years prior, with an army of thousands of disciples hanging on every word. Sterner stuff though he may be made of, I dare say a similar thought must cross his mind some nights as he stares into the dark eyes, blankly processing the carefully crafted lyric from an album long after his brief glimpse at fame.

Living as we are in the age of perennial enlightenment, where the issue of what's good has been decided, it's easy to forget that not all who are worthy have been lucky. I've been raised on countless myths about the un-appreciated genius, but everytime I see them mentioned or, when possible, in person, it is as one face in a sea of others. By definition, I rarely see or hear about those who didn't make it into the public heart after a long struggle. Of course this is to be expected -- the heart can only accommodate so much. But it is a sobering reminder that there are likely countless other voices passing us by everyday, lost forever to the caprices of time while we convince ourselves that we have unearthed all that is worth consideration.

More cosmically, I suppose it is easy to argue that these superficial signs of success are fleeting, and needn't be paid any mind. True enough, and I do like to think that if he knew, for example, the many times I've brought his words to mind and nodded at their wisdom, that that would make his day or two. And I think of all those who lined up once the performance was ended, all eager to finally meet and talk to this person who has only been a name in their lives for so many years. Living halfway across the world, and coming to realise that for decades you have been in people's homes and hearts -- that must be something.

But the world itself could, should, have laid at your feet. And if you couldn't make it happen, what hope for the rest of us?

The last year has seen an unusual rise in the amount of film and TV I've engaged with. The strongest link connecting my choices has been, roughly, things I've known and thought about for many years, but never got around to experiencing. Unsurprisingly, my mode of choice in this conquest has been the medium you're using to read this. As a longtime critic of said medium, especially when it comes to music, it's good to have been exposed to this way of doing business to update my beliefs. Which are: yes, it is convenient; yes, it is superior to having to trawl through VHS bins; no, I'm not convinced the current models are sustainable; and no, I still refuse to use this for music.

Why the different standard when it comes to music? Frankly, because I treat music with more reverence. It's more personal, more spiritual, and requires rapt attention and concentration. This is something mass consumption does not lend itself to. I don't claim that people haven't trained themselves to retain the best of the old world and new. For me, the finality of a record, not to mention the tangible history embodied in its physical form, seems pretty optimal. Convenience without moderation isn't axiomatically a good thing.

A corollary of my earlier post on art never aging is that, as a general rule, time is rarely kind on mediocrity. Of late, I've been revisiting an area of perennial fascination -- anime -- and have mostly been greeted with grand disappointments. Being raised in a community where people spoke glowingly of the complex stories and characters, it's a bit sad to see that in many instances, either they're fooling themselves or there are profound differences in culture and aesthetic that I will never learn to appreciate. My fascination still remains, largely based on hope -- it's one of the few mediums that explores fantasy really well, I think, and as a veteran BG2 player, this is something I have a significant soft spot for.

The evening's ritual was a walk down the quiet, dimly lit road in the dusk. Behind me was another lost battle, another lost chance at a redemption I think I knew I would never receive. Ahead was nothing more than the warmth of familiarity, but I would take whatever I could get. Every walk, all I wanted was for it to be the last, because that would mean that the battle was over -- defeat had to be preferable to this. So one day I fled, and that was that. But now I walk down a different equally dimly lit road in the dusk, and all I can think is how gloriously real that shuffle in the quiet was, with only the streetlight, my thoughts, and me. Every footstep thus seems an echo of a past that, by any measure, was not worth living -- and yet, which I cannot seem to escape from. Is the only way to make my peace to relive everything, and prove that I have learned how to survive? Or is it to dig deeper and deeper, till nothing, man or memory, can find me?

Anytime discussion turns to what it is we do, there seem to be a few ground rules. First, it is certainly important, and not pointless -- anyone who feels otherwise has made some baffling life choices. Second, it is by far more important than any other triviality that the masses distract themselves with -- this is, after all, the pursuit of knowledge in its purest form! Third, this is not work, really -- because it is what we love spending your time on, and it is suspicious that anyone want to disconnect from that.

There is much to commend about these views, and I can't claim they aren't true for other people. For me, as always, I find reason to question these pillars, and ask if the tower is as strong as it appears. The unquestioning party line seems unaware or uncaring of the faults that surely exist. For one, the culture encourages a dismally one-dimensional view of the self -- perhaps being judged on (the perception of) your brain is preferable to being judged on your body, but it is demeaning nonetheless. How pathetic to see the wonder of man reduced to a pocketful of equations and ideas. The pity of the matter is that one starts to believe in this hollow ghost, and imagine that this is what all others must see -- which, in my case, is perpetually a shadow of failure.

Of course, one-dimensional views are popular everywhere; it's the way we're wired, no doubt. But it seems to play a stronger role amongst us, because of the belief that this is anyway the only thing that matters. When there is an understanding that what you do is, at the end of the day, just a bit of theatre, there is the opportunity to see others for who they are behind the curtain. I think that's what missing -- a sense of who people are as people, rather than as machines that produce theorems.

My Illegal Self

Sometimes my existence utterly boggles my mind -- and that takes some doing, given the thoughts that ordinarily pass through it -- and I find it hard to imagine that a more unlikely individual has ever walked this planet. I almost pity the unknowing others who look into these eyes, seeing whatever image it is I project. No one's image is their whole story, but how many have kept up so massive a charade so consistently? How many have managed to have more or less conformed to the norms of society, while amassing an unbelievably detailed array of thought and emotion borne from isolation, longing, and denial? An array which, when its hand is revealed, would leave me standing alone as the earth and everyone in it scurries in fear.

Can't Make A Sound

For three minutes, the world seems like it has stopped spinning. As my mind adjusts to the silence that follows, it is with some disappointment, and doubt -- because what else is left to feel? I have resolved everything, and having discovered my final words, I see no better close to the chapter. All remorse has been shed, because I must be blessed to be able to feel so strongly and, I think it must be true, purely. Perhaps there is a world as bright as the poets tell, but I don't lament that I will not see it. Even if I've been walking in the dark these many years, it was always to this place, where I may bask under a sky of glorious gray. I'd like to stay here, I tell the world, as I feel the wheels stir slowly into motion.

Pitseleh

"No one deserves it": it was around this point last night that I felt my throat start to clamp up, and it started getting tighter still with each following word. Because that's really all you can say, isn't it -- this amount of emotion could not be owed to anyone, no matter the path they may have chosen, or the things they might have done. Ergo, we find ourselves an unfortunate casualty of chance.

You'd think all this wise reflection and introspection would offer some solace, and steer one's thoughts away from that which has no answer. But there is still a resigned admission of guilt that, even knowing all that one does, there is something inside -- a piece that went missing, and which each day seems less likely to be found -- that refuses to let go. What else to do, then, but to embrace the night in the hopes that it will help one forget?

"I've got a joke I've been dying to tell you": the sun rises again, and in the daylight, it seems like there just might be hope.