Monday, April 27, 2009

Old Ghosts, New Ideas

Milan Kundera once said that if something were to only happen once, it may as well have never happened at all. As we, humans, have but one life to live, we may as well have never lived at all for how little influence we could make upon the vast universe. For many, this is a frightening concept. I can understand why! At first glance, it would seem as if this Nietzschian-esque philosophy were outright extreme pessimism at best, nihilistic at it's worst.

For me, however, there could be nothing more encouraging. If I may as well have not existed, if all my choices, all my mistakes and triumphs are to have no overall significance in the grand scheme of things, then I am truly weightless and free to make any choice I desire, as I desire.

In short, I'm fully ready to start taking the sort of risks that would normally give me pause because I've absolutely nothing to lose from the experience. Too often, our fear and worry of failure and consequence act as anchors, keeping us trapped at the bottom of the sea in a crippling sort of stand-still. It's already begun, I think, as I've always been prone to act first and then rationalize my actions later (if at all!).

Growth! Try as I might to fight it, it's inevitable in me. Even Pan, The Avenger became more complex a personality as he met Wendy and interacted with new places and people! So too, then, must I and I'll ride on the backs of all the winds to do so. Happy thoughts and pixie dust.

In case it hasn't already become obvious, my insomnia is absolutely still in full force and my renewed refusal to take sleeping pills has left me feeling rebellious all over again. Consequently, I find myself motivated to write and write and write!

She'll catch his eyes
through empty skies
and light a beacon in the dark.
Hers is the only voice he knows,
His is the only ghost she chose.

A slow waltz,
clumsy steps that lead into
a frantic sort of passionate movement
she's floating, light-footed
he's sinking through the floors.

Outstretched fingers brushing lips,
hushing every sigh, muting every kiss,
giving form and weight and context
to the breeze that bore the flighty heart.
New moons birthing weary eyelids,
resting heads over slowly moving chests,
dancing with every breath.

Still, he'll catch her eyes
though they've dimmed the lights
and line a path back to the cloth.
She'll give a smile, and all the while,
laughter in the dark.

He said he wanted the weight of her,
she said it was never hers to give. "Some
questions are better left unanswered"
"Sometimes it even hurts to laugh"

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p.s. I think I've fallen.

2 comments:

Melissa said...

amen! PS. i miss you. WHERE ARE YOU?

Victoria said...

You have a Kundera label?! Yet another reason we've been friends for so long..