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Thursday, April 14, 2011

and so i started this blog part 2

I read this and for some reason it got me thinking about Horcruxes,

I loved Harry Potter, it was an amazing series of books that explored a thousand little things, betrayal, the nature of evil, friendship, the power of love and hope and it had all this magic, loads and loads of magic. I grew up reading Harry Potter, I was one of those kids who actually waited for the next book to come out and the characters were all my age, we grew up together, but that's not what this is about, its about horcruxes.

These were little pieces of a soul that a wizard could leave somewhere in the world that would make him  forever immortal. His physical body could die but since he had these horcruxes he really wouldn't.

And I'm scared of death, I used to think about it way too much. I thought I had it figured out that the only reason human beings are scared of anything is because they are scared of death. Maybe not everyone but me especially. I saw the end of everything as a death in itself, the end of university was the death of childishness, and I was so scared of what would come after, I was scared of responsibility of actually having to do something that I would be paid for. A friend of mine once asked me if I had a skill that I thought someone would pay me money for and I wasn't sure. I have read for years and years, and maybe am really good at that but in the real world noone is actually paid to cramm useless bytes of information down their brain so that's out. Then I figured out I was actually scared of the unknown. And that's what death is right? The unknown.

But real death is so much worse. I hate hearing stories about someone who died, like that campus student who died recently. I keep thinking about all the things he will never do. And when I talk to people about it, I say with such emotion “that's the end of his life” and when people don't get how important that is I don't get that, how do they not see how monumental that is. This guy will never walk, fight, think or love again. His mind is a blank, his soul nothing more than a concept we leaned about via theology. For all the talk about a soul, an eternal piece of us that lives on there might be nothing there. And that scares me. The blankness of an eternity. And I'm reading this book Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky. And one of the characters says."We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it's one little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that's all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that." and I don't know which one is worse the glory of a never ending servitude,or black and grime and spiders.

Death is horrible but when I think about it I think about how much I love life and I want to live and not be gone, I want to leave little pieces of my soul everywhere so that even if I am not they still are. There should be a mark on a sidewalk somewhere a sign that I lived and died. When I didn't think about death I never thought about life and thinking all that made me write this:

“we are all awash in a sea of contradictions and complexities, tossing and turning in an ocean that threatens to drown even the most rigid among us, bending us to our wills that are not always our wills, changing us, shifting us, making us something we're not but at the same time all we are.”

But my phone had died when I thought that up and I was so scared I would forget it so I looked for a notepad everywhere and I wrote it down and I felt alive. And maybe that's why I write. When I started this blog I wrote about all the reasons I had started it. And it was a list of events, of things that had happened to me. Interesting things, scary things, things that changed the way I think and relate with others. Things I loved to write about. But my life is not the most eventful chapter in the vast expanse of human history, surely there are lives far more deserving of a biweekly capture in words.

But now I don't think I write just because things happen to me. I talked to this girl once, she had read some of the blog, and she told me that she felt like she knew me better than before she read it. Guess that's true. There is nothing in the personal information that points to me as a human being but sometimes, I think that this blog, these posts are hocruxes of my own. Little windows into the things that make me me. There's a lot of personal experience and even when I write fictional pieces they aren't taken out of thin air. Strange thing is those fictional pieces have the most impact on me. I love them.

And sometimes I ramble about all the things am scared of. And life is scary. Happiness has been sold to us nearly forever. If you're not happy you haven't achieved anything in life. All your money, your sacrifice, your beauty, your brains count for nought if measured up against your lack of fulfillment. And that's the message the world sells us over and over again. This hopelessly idealistic world view, but the world is confused, maybe after a while we just realise the confusion ourselves. I don't know if it's the dark bend of art nowadays or personal experience, or conversations but I come to believe as time goes by that not many people are happy with their lot. Wives cheat on their husbands and husbands beat their wives and human beings are locked in this state of mortal combat with life itself, except life always wins and we always die.

But I write this and I look back and think that even a hundred years from now if anyone was curious about what kind of man I was, what experiences I had, what drove me towards them or away from them. What made me tick. They could just open this up and see. And so I leave these little horcruxes everywhere.

A part of me writes because I am scared to die, to have lived and done all this and die with all of it still intact not changing anyone, noone to learn from it, just me and my coffin. But a part of me writes because I love life. With an overabundance. I see nearly everything as interesting now and I like that, I talk to people and really listen. Really listen. I shut out the rest of the world because lifetimes can be lived in moments like that. Then I sit down and talk with myself. I look at this computer screen and on the good days the words come pouring out. This was one of the good days. They dance all over the screen changing it, my blank canvas that I paint with broad strokes of my soul sometimes general and about nothing in particular but I still remember the phone call and when she said she knows me better and it seems the stokes aren't too broad or can't be. Maybe the whole of me is contained in no matter how inconsequential a piece it is. Like the DNA we can find in a strand of hair that can recreate a human being,

I like to think that at least.

I remember being told that a blogger wakes and sleeps to the stats page on the blog, how many hits today, yesterday, where from, how come? How many comments, who felt touched by what you wrote and why? That's mostly true because I love the comments, I like to know that someone read and wrote, it makes me feel like writing more. I like to think that someone recognised a bit of themselves in these ramblings or thoughts or maybe they didn't but it made them feel like looking closer, just a little closer.

And so I started this blog.