I've learned a lot of things this year, and one of them is that words lie. Art is merely an expression of the essence and truths of our beings and the closer it comes to resembling the original feelings, the more beautiful it turns out to be. But it's important that we don't let expressions of art replace what's actually in our hearts -- just because nothing can actually capture that, so we must live to manifest it all.
Literally and less importantly, I write a lot, and even when I don't weave any lies or stories, I feel dishonest because of the notion that I can't capture myself in art. But as long as I keep in mind that I'm not exactly anything definable, I think it's totally valid. That said, I wrote this on an index card today ...
I contemplate death a lot. On sunny days I drive to the cemetery and sunbathe at the top of the hill, surrounded by tombs and gravestones, and I think about how each memorial is meant to honor a real person. How each one represents a life of ecstasy, agony, and love that at one time changed the world. How every person means
something to somebody else.
Then I go to a concert, the mall, a school assembly, and see all the people -- talking, touching, hurting, living -- and I wonder why so few of us fail to consummate how meaningfully beautiful these peoples' lives are now.
"Are you in love with her?"
"No ... I'm in love with you. And I'm in love with your beautiful woman. And I'm in love with your kids. And I'm even in love with your unborn child. I'm even in love with your anger! I'm in love with anything that lives!"
[In America]
The happiness now is part of the pain later.
The pain later is a part of the happiness now.
I keep hearing this in Problems of Faith and it's finally making sense. I feel like I could learn this one million times and every time it would mean more. When you allow yourself to love,
of course you let pain in. People hurt, people leave, people die. We all know this to some extent, but we all perpetually lament the pain we experience.
But how could I, or anyone, possibly regret one single second spent loving so truly? I could never. I won't, ever.
It's hard for me to be happy when such terrible things are happening and the worst is yet to come. But it's impossible for me to just be sad when there's so much beauty surrounding me and so much fucking love, always flowing in and out, as enveloping as an ocean, but somehow more overwhelming. What I've been learning the past month or so is, I won't be happy. With all the tragedy and natural evil and unbearable pain, I may never really be happy. But I'm fine. I'm more than fine; I'm so fufilled. This, to me, is so much more important than being happy.
"There are so many perfect ideas in this town. But love, like a mushroom high compared with the buzz from cheap weed, outlasts grief. It does. Love is everything. It
is the greatest of these. And I think that we all use whatever is in our power, whatever is within our reach, to attempt to keep alive the love we've felt."
So often, the simplest thing is the truest.
