This piece started and still, for the most part is, a stream of consciousness starting with the idea of a mental block. A little hint of my internal monologue.
A mind can be, or is, a machine-esque operation, a fluid and productive movement of its parts. Yet, at times, this matter of production, can falter. Between its gears and cogs, are the tid-bits of personal minutia that detract from perfect productivity. While one might care to fancy that we are the ‘machine’, the process and epitomal output, one cannot forget that they are, forevermore, the detritus as well. That emotional or fanciful clutter is the hallmark of who a person is. And it is not enough to understand that we are separated by our individualities, there must be a reaction. There must be some change in mental operation to prove that existence of any mental activity. This could range from emotions throwing off a person’s everyday tasks to the mulling over of a concept that eventually results in a decision. As an example, this is the difference between acknowledging a preference and being affected by it. One can have a strong inclination towards peppermint stick ice cream, but until that preference actually has an effect it stands as a purposeless fact. it is a matter, in essence, of the sign-signified relationships of the brain. The sign being the acknowledged preference and the signified being the live manifestation within actions. This action may be the simple choice of peppermint stick over vanilla. In total, while the seemingly unrelated minutia can hold up grander productivity, it is exactly that difficulty that puts a person behind a product.
lately, due to having come down with a virus, I’ve kept myself at a distance. This has manifested itself in a few forms. The first would be what measures I impose, myself. The second is what actions are taken against me. The first is easy enough to define, I try to be careful, not get others sick. I peacefully and happily shy away from some scenarios that put things at risk. By far the more pressing matter is that which others impart to me. There are those that treat me the same, and others that see me as a fucking leper. And this has corrupted me. While in the beginning I used to turn away from romantic options with a bemused smile, now it’s with a self loathing and a stench of forced cowardice. As though the tail between my legs isn’t mine, and it’s out there for all to see. Now the idea has been corrupted; who am I protecting? Who am I saving? Am I stopping any kind of harm, or just being self-inflicting. Do I stand alone with a purpose anymore, or is it the latent presentation of some messiah complex? It seems to me to be a mix of all, if I were inclined to be honest. A noble cause, turned cynically self-sacrificing. A good idea made gauntly ignoble by a growing sense of grandeur. All of this I can tolerate, false pride is no sin in my eyes. The only fear that I truly can’t tolerate is the suspicion of underlying cowardice. Is my honest sense of duty toward my fellow man (ironically, specifically women), now stretching to cover my fear of connection? I’ve accepted the latter point’s existence, I’m wary of that connection to say the least, but that’s another matter for another rambling. Now I’m staring at the proverbial mental foreground, wondering where the line is, if it exists.
Skin. I see it more and more each day as the blankest canvas. And nothing peeves me more than an underutilized space for expression. I have no tattoos, myself, but I crave them. I look at my arms, my chest, my entire body, and I see all that could be. Continually as words and images float across my eyes and before my mind, there is no adulteration. My imagination spreads them, recreates and reproduces them, across my self. In my head I see phrases and aphorisms drifting with their black text, changing their font, always looking for the best possible spot so as they might seat myself properly as an external representation of the philosophies I hold dear. Every illustration from the highest masterpiece to the simplest graffiti, I question whether it might have a place on this canvas of mine.
Perhaps this is why I love my scars. They are simple representations to those around me of my history, the good and the bad. They are visual reminders of the places I’ve been and some of the people I’ve met. No, this idea is separate. It goes beyond the idea of art and visual stimulation. I love them for their primality. The simple fact that they remind me of the fragility of life. That they keep my consciousness in check with the realization of its delicacy. And out of this recognition, arises a greater appreciation. The appreciation of all the times I’ve fallen and will fall, of all the times I’ve risen and will rise again. Then again, perhaps it is the visual recreation of this internal drive I like as well…
How beautiful can a blink be? It’s so instant, and shutters the world at that moment, essentially an obstruction. As I close my eyes for the briefest moment the image presents itself. The afterimage imprinted from the veins of my eyelids reaching and forking like a tree limb. Providing shade, if only for the moment.
Peacefully, willow leaves continue to fall on a childhood memory. The pizza from that night before is as cold as it has always been. Sitting here, rooms- schools- states later, I begin to wonder. Is that willow tree still there, or has it been cut down? Sitting in my mind all this time, how stale has that pizza become? Despite what it should or would become, it has stayed the same no matter how far I am from it. And that is the same it will always be.