2004-07-29
Eres Cru�l
Speaking with Fel�pe yesterday has left me in a horrible state of deep confusion, disillusionment (with myself, perhaps), and to some extent, melancholy. So how does it feel, to once more tear apart everything that was dear to me, your words peppered with blatant and dark bitterness? As children, I remember the both of us--different, carefree. Playing with coloured wooden blocks, we used to build things together. With our vast imaginations, we would reconstruct Atlantis, we would make edifices--which, in our untainted minds--could make the world praise us: Fel�pe and Lib�t, the two grand architects.
But the golden years of our blissful innocence have passed, and the things that I now create with the few remnants that I hold on to, of my once innocent, child-like imagination--these things, that are created by my own coloured building blocks, you come and destroy with your sharp words. Does it please you, stripping me of every innocent fancy that I have, and attempting to mould me like some type of proteg�? Like Aristotle�s Alexander?
And by reading and harshly criticising what I write, these �quaint little vignettes� as you like to refer to them, you do strip me...of every hope that I have. But why is it that I can take any criticism stoically, yet I take yours so deeply, like a knife to the heart? And whilst you sail under today�s clear, blue sky--fishing and painting, no doubt, reading your beloved Freder�co Lorcas--I am here, splitting my mind open with a wave doubts. And yes, these other writers are right--you are a fool! Yet, you hurt me deeply.
What do I have left, but these �scribblings�...these insignificant scribblings, as you call them. However, why should I take your words into such great consideration, as if you were art�s omniscient deity? Suddenly, I have an urge to go back and erase every single diary entry that I have written, and mercilessly burn my bound pages filled with soliloquies that have been painstakingly dug out of my heart. Not knowing when I have �slipped�, or �exploited� my pain--with Roger, perhaps?
But how does someone exploit pain, when it�s what they truly feel? But you don�t understand that, and your cold heart, that has never even flinched, tries to marginalize the creations of those who do feel. Why should you even understand, when everything has been handed to you--you live your fairytale romances to their fullest, discarding these young ladies when you tire of them. Your youth, your unbearable haughtiness, your Adonis features, make you all the more mocking.
But I�ve never hated that (and I hope that you are indeed reading as you threatened to do). I have never hated you with your fiery rhetoric against the sensitive and artistic souls of the world; nor have I hated your insipid nature. Never have I craved to be as insensitive and as cold-hearted as you, despite your urgings for me to become that type of a person.
But now, I do. I am beginning to despise you because the echo of your ignorant words have awoken me at midnight--urging me to pace my shadowy hallway, questioning my own talent. You have given me the urge to hate everything that I have written, and to question myself in this sea of writers.
And, if indeed you are right? What if I truly do not posses any talent whatsoever (much less �rare� talent), and my writings are simply the musings of an innocent, youthful soul? I have to write--like breathing. I have to write, even if it is to put down one sentence on paper...even if it doesn�t posses talent, I need that. I need that like you need to smell varnish on canvas, and like you need to feel your brush. I have seen you paint, I have seen the look in your eyes as you fill the white canvas with a sea of colours with your rapid brushstrokes; that makes you happy, doesn�t it? You cannot lie to me, for I have seen it, and understand that moments such as those are sacred to you--never to be touched, or tainted with hateful words. But you cannot understand--you refuse to understand--my own sacred moments.
I need a break, from all of this. Half of me wants to laugh and scoff at myself for being so young, na�ve, and impressionable. No one exploits pain, and no one seeks to take heart-break as validation for their creativity or talent. I have not yet seen the full circles of life, but I will guess that there are truly tormented souls out there who are only guilty of one thing: putting their heart and soul into their work. You might find this difficult to understand, but people don�t write or paint for an audience--they do it for themselves. If one does not put all of themselves into their work, what have they created, but something that conveys nothing. You hurt and offend me, but this isn�t over...you will see. Until then, I hope that you will one day see beyond yourself. But I also thank-you, for you have inspired me to write this (lacking emotion, as you like to call it. Perhaps it won�t even impress you, but it�s mine).
And what does it take to be a fisherman in the night�s velvet sky? A deep ocean abound with flickering, white marble-like stars; clouds that were cotton-white during the midday became dabbed with the runny colours of sunset�s fine-haired paintbrush, the gentle hands of the afternoon breeze has taken these cotton-balls and dipped them into an ink of deep, majestic blue. Gently and softly, they blow their nightly gusts of wind that sway this heavenly boat of mine to and fro. And some flaming comets fly higher above me, still, as they smoulder and leave their glittering tracks, branding a pathway on the consistent, profound darkness. As my golden boat sails, it parts the uncharted and cold waters of this sky, revealing eternity beneath.
Dreams like these are all too common with heads laying still on our fresh pillows that have absorbed our tears, and listened to the whispers that fly out of our nightly dreams. Deep within our chests there stands a lake with our hearts at its centre--beating softly and rhythmically as it sends ripples and shakes the young lotus blossoms floating about. And even in my dream, I clearly hear the creaking of my golden boat and the hollow sound made on the scoured wooden floors as I walk about my ship.
My ship of solitude that tastes of the morning�s fresh and sweet dew; and on this golden ship I want to sail the uncharted waters of life. I will hum the eerie songs of whales, and write with the ink provided me by satin gleam of a crimson moon--my story written on the white sails for other lost dreamers and sojourners to read.
And in this place, there is no light, save for that of the stars and moon. And in here, there is no beginning and no end, and feelings never run dry like the earthly creeks; there is no map, save for the faithful beatings of our hearts, lighting the way towards our antique memories and dreams that have for so long been entrenched within the cobwebs of our most precious desires.