Lordran

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).