Something Something Grand

I've been trying to write a post for the last few days. I've been trying to get back on the habit of blogging again. But after drafts and drafts, I can't seem to write something that I actually like. I have ideas. But it seems like there's a disconnection from myself and my thoughts. I seem to have the time, but somehow, my patience has waned. And listening, even to my own voice, seems a lot harder. There are waves of noise and the noise seems incredibly loud. I have hard time focusing. Even the usual mental exercises don't seem to help. If I could only picture myself writing, it seems like I'd be able to write again. And through writing, I'd be able to unpack my mind. Settle it and calm it a little. Despite the unusual circumstances that have happened last several months, I wish my mind could embrace this place as its home and take refuge. Stop running and rest.

I stood on the balcony of my dorm for a while and just stared at the evening skyline. I could see glimmers of thousand buildings lit across and the mountainscapes showered by artificial light. For a while, nothing entered my mind. Maybe the thought of cigarettes and smoking entered my mind, thinking that my hands wouldn't feel so awkward then. But after a moment of wait, there was a light tug, and a question entered my mind. When was the last time I've ever just sit or stood still, in silence, and alone? It seemed like it was all a long time ago. And instantly, I started paging through the last few days and the last few months, racing through my memory. But then my mind halted. I was doing it again; I seemed to have even lost the ability to be still. It's all the noise and the distractions. And for a moment, I wished I was back in the passenger seat of my brother's Toyota Camry. Driving down the driving the vast Canadian highway at midnight with nothing but the sounds of the tires rolling and the tall street lights flashing by, one by one. He'd be driving and I'd be on the passenger seat, quietly staring out the window. And I'd close my eyes just enough, and all the lights would've seemed to diffuse and form bands of different colors, like a stream of light. And with each light passing by, it would seem as if you could draw the very pulse of the heart by your eyes.

As my personal anecdote often states, everything always comes down to faith. In this case, it seems like I can't even convince myself when I'm writing. I'm at disbelief at my own writing. It's a strange feeling, knowing that you're a little disconnected from yourself somehow. It is a little disheartening. Yet, I take slight joy from the truth that the disconnection I feel doesn't necessary mean, or engender, a state of conflict. And really, like the pulse, it's just a phase. I just have to restart bit by bit; start small.

Photo of Barnett Newman's 'Vir Heroicus Sublimis' at MoMA by David & Heather