The Warrior-Prophet turned to him, clutched his shoulder with a shining hand. "The Truth of Here is that it is Everywhere. And this, Akka, is what it means to be in love: to recognize the Here within the other, to see the world through another's eyes. To be here together."
His eyes, luminous with wisdom, seemed unbearable.
The world had sloughed off the last of the sun, and the shadows pooled like ink. Night stalked the ruined ways of Charaöth.
"And this is why you suffer so ... When what was here turns away from you, as she has turned away from you, it seems there's nowhere you might stand."
A mosquito dared whine through the air about their ears.
"Why are you telling me this?" Achamian cried.
"Because you are not alone."
Anasûrimbor Kellhus
Prince of Nothing Trilogy: The Thousandfold Thought, by R. Scott Bakker
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Here Is Everywhere
Friday, March 19, 2010
Four Years Ago
... I fell in love. I have never faltered since. If anything, this relentless pounding of fists at my chest has grown even more intense, threatening to break flesh, to draw blood. But like a wildcat caged for far too long, this love eventually realized the futility of its wildness, submitting to a madness that transcended both movement and sound -- a paralyzing burden of knowing.
Four years ago, I triumphed at life. Despite years of doubt, of a seemingly endless cycle of loss, of skipping on fragile little islands of hope, I won. Four years ago, I won. And since then, that is how the rest of my life has been measured -- through the haze of memory, through gaping wounds, through errant shards of fantasy. Memory rises in the distance like an ivory tower diminishing with every step, carving its own malevolent space in my field of vision even as I move further. Not once did I ever stray, nor did I look away. A slight turn of the head, a wayward eye, and immediately a gouging sensation would wrack my body, as if the scene would seem lacking in some way and my flesh hungers for recompense. So always, I turn back to the memory. To you.
Your face -- the pallor of your cheeks, the steel in your eyes, the smell of summer grass in your hair -- together hold a certain gravitas, a solidity like banded muscles, real and unyielding, to every excruciating minute after the last time we saw each other. Never a day goes by that I do not think of my hands on your body, my lips on your flesh, my heart on your heart. And no, I can't imagine spending what's left of my life any other way. (Not for lack of trying, but doing so felt... wrong and hollow. Like reading a book upside down or losing gravity.) Foolish, some may call me -- and indeed some have -- but I regret nothing. Four years ago, I fell in love, and I am in love still. I hope you are, too. Happy birthday.
Four years ago, I triumphed at life. Despite years of doubt, of a seemingly endless cycle of loss, of skipping on fragile little islands of hope, I won. Four years ago, I won. And since then, that is how the rest of my life has been measured -- through the haze of memory, through gaping wounds, through errant shards of fantasy. Memory rises in the distance like an ivory tower diminishing with every step, carving its own malevolent space in my field of vision even as I move further. Not once did I ever stray, nor did I look away. A slight turn of the head, a wayward eye, and immediately a gouging sensation would wrack my body, as if the scene would seem lacking in some way and my flesh hungers for recompense. So always, I turn back to the memory. To you.
Your face -- the pallor of your cheeks, the steel in your eyes, the smell of summer grass in your hair -- together hold a certain gravitas, a solidity like banded muscles, real and unyielding, to every excruciating minute after the last time we saw each other. Never a day goes by that I do not think of my hands on your body, my lips on your flesh, my heart on your heart. And no, I can't imagine spending what's left of my life any other way. (Not for lack of trying, but doing so felt... wrong and hollow. Like reading a book upside down or losing gravity.) Foolish, some may call me -- and indeed some have -- but I regret nothing. Four years ago, I fell in love, and I am in love still. I hope you are, too. Happy birthday.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Said Too Many Times
It has been said, and it has been said too many times -- suffering exists to deepen joy; pain exists to give life meaning. In the compendium of human languages, in the entire catalogue of words, they point to one basic concept -- balance. And looking at the big picture, it seems to be true. What does a field of black mean without speckles of contrasting white? Light is bereft of beauty without a spectrum of colors to reflect. Balance is what the Universe strives for, in a scale too grand and much too magnificent our minds can only dream of imagining.
Our vision is limited from where we stand. The enormity of entire worlds moved by a singular energy -- a force so great that an individual's life seems all but a flicker -- what philosophized, romanticized idea of balance do we, in our level of existence, cling to?
Suffering exists to deepen joy. "That simple-minded schmuck without ambition, who doesn't know what he wants to do for the rest of his sad, sorry life; that poor, poor man who will end up alone, embittered, and withered to the bone -- I'm glad I'm not him!" Perhaps it is in this way life achieves balance, but who am I to say? I am just one life whose light is few and far in between. Whose landscape is more valley than mountain. "We try our best," some people would say. "Kindness is what matters," or "Life is measured in love." All wise, noble words, to be sure, but a point is crossed when one simply becomes... exhausted. Even a smile becomes wearisome.
Would it be strange, would it be too arrogant to say that I am too different from everyone else? Perhaps I am not too different. Perhaps there are a multitude of people battling the same demons as I am. I feel weaker, though. Every minute, I feel like I am about to lose. Balance? I exist so other people can feel good about themselves -- that's the balance this life has taught me. Hope? All smoke, all illusion. Nothing but skin, empty of flesh; nothing but stars, empty of light.
Our vision is limited from where we stand. The enormity of entire worlds moved by a singular energy -- a force so great that an individual's life seems all but a flicker -- what philosophized, romanticized idea of balance do we, in our level of existence, cling to?
Suffering exists to deepen joy. "That simple-minded schmuck without ambition, who doesn't know what he wants to do for the rest of his sad, sorry life; that poor, poor man who will end up alone, embittered, and withered to the bone -- I'm glad I'm not him!" Perhaps it is in this way life achieves balance, but who am I to say? I am just one life whose light is few and far in between. Whose landscape is more valley than mountain. "We try our best," some people would say. "Kindness is what matters," or "Life is measured in love." All wise, noble words, to be sure, but a point is crossed when one simply becomes... exhausted. Even a smile becomes wearisome.
Would it be strange, would it be too arrogant to say that I am too different from everyone else? Perhaps I am not too different. Perhaps there are a multitude of people battling the same demons as I am. I feel weaker, though. Every minute, I feel like I am about to lose. Balance? I exist so other people can feel good about themselves -- that's the balance this life has taught me. Hope? All smoke, all illusion. Nothing but skin, empty of flesh; nothing but stars, empty of light.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
I Totally Fucking Love You
Freddie
I totally fucking love you.
Effy
I didn't know what to do with that feeling... happiness. I know now. And they're hungry. Really fucking hungry. Because for as long as I know, they've been chasing me. And now they're ready, now they're strong enough to break through. And I can't fight them. I used to be able to when I was strong but... you've made me weak.
[Skins // Series 4 // Episode 5]