The past few weeks have been interesting, to say the least.
Interesting, of course, in a purely objective, clinical sort of way. Best to
distance emotion when giving an account of events, no?
There’s nothing quite as refreshing as being humbled, I don’t
think; there’s just something about being grabbed by the neck and dragged
through the mud that does away with a lot of clutter in one’s head. Things that
are no longer important but still hang around like a rank miasma get left
behind, almost startling in their departure, like music that was playing in the
background that is noticed only when it gets muted. The things that stay get
thrown into relief; theories and beliefs get abraded away, and one is left with
nothing more than things are they are,
unclouded by thoughts of ought and should. And they start to fill the void
that is now suddenly there.
The shattering of illusions
is always painful. The mirror cracks and shatters, and each shard reflects a
different view of the same scene, catching the light and reflecting each other
as they hurtle down, finding freedom from a collective impression in the seconds
before they end their journey, swept up and discarded. Oops, another mistake.
It’s interesting putting faces to the voices in your head,
but disconcerting to realize that they are but variations of your own. And
every voice has its own dramatis personae, its own monologues, its own voice. Its own story. On stages within
stages within stages, these voices act out their parts, oblivious to empty seats
and darkened theaters, because who the fuck has time anymore?
I started playing Dark Souls again, retextured and adapted
for the PC. The atmosphere of that game has always enthralled me; there’s
something so fascinating about the sense of decayed magnificence, once-lost
beauty struggling to hold on, of illusions that mean so much to some that they become reality, granting purpose to Gods
and Men alike. It’s like the story of our lives, encased in a world at once
familiar and distant, with battles against giants and monsters mirrored in our
own minds, against demons of self-loathing, anger, negativity. And, like the protagonist,
we offer our humanity and souls to the fire, and push on. Because that is all we know how to do.
Maybe Darwin was right; the greatest deeds are the ones done
from instinct.
Had an interesting thought the other day. Lucifer’s name and
his position among the angels is startlingly constant in its depiction; the
Bringer of Light was always the greatest, the most magnificent, filled with
light. Maybe that’s why he was sent to shoulder the burden of Hell, of dealing
with the most depraved, the insane, the hollow; because he was the only one who could. Maybe his act of rebellion
was not willful disobedience, but the first Sacrifice, the first
act-made-sacred, the first instance of a being setting himself aside for the
good of his brethren, shouldering a burden and damning himself because he knew
that the others could not bear the burden.
How does he not break?
I’m beginning to realize that as people grow older, they
grow more defined; necessarily, they grow apart, and begin to feel the
void-that-needs-filling. I don’t think anyone’s actually able to fill that
void; it’s just a matter of dealing with it in a way that doesn’t ruin you or
the people around you. The end is inevitable, the decline imminent, but the manner of the movement is all that
counts. That’s what separates the people you remember from the people you don’t.
I close my eyes and
sink within myself/Relive the gift of precious memories/In need of a fix called
innocence.
(rest in peace, big man).
