Wandering with the Wind...

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Is it strange to miss something that never existed? Somehow, and very much inexplicably, I miss so many things that have never occurred to me in this life before. When I look outside the window I hope to see a scene so much different from what reality actually presents to me. I miss emotions that I remember probably from another lifetime, miss the things that I've never had in these fifteen years...I probably miss living something I can truly call life, and it's strange, isn't it, if I never even knew life?

I've gotten back to writing a bit these few days, and what I retrieved was a world of lonely hours enclosed in a fictional universe, whose life I would weave by churning out more words to supplement the wonders of visionary inspiration. I used to have a job there, perhaps even a working place, a studio or an office, a summerhouse even, where I would wonder to and fro freely between work and pleasure and life was truly what it was meant to be. I thrived on an expenditure of words and a salary of experiential creations. My work was just to create, create, and endlessly create, and be rewarded with the joy of reviewing my creations as they become animated and alive.

As I grew older, I became enticed for awhile by the promise of more rewarding bonuses from the outside world. I quit my comfy job and ventured into a dangerous new world called Reality. I shifted out of Fiction country, into a vast new land called Reality, perhaps proportionally as big as Russia or even bigger in the real world, in hope of finding a new home in that new endless realm. Expectedly though, I did a horrible job surviving there. Reality gave me less than what it originally promised and I lost sight of many things I wanted to do. My skills became rusty and my ambitions dulled. Once in awhile I would remember to create, but my creations were restricted because Reality would not tolerate such wild ambitious projects. Reality had a God, and we were to obey it.

I miss Fiction. I miss Fiction so much. I have a house in Reality right now, of course, and everytime I push open the window I would see solid, beautiful scenery, perhaps a row of birds dwindling into the sky, or stars and sun and people and trees. These things remain as the hours pass by. Days, months, years, decades, and they would occasionally change, but fundamentally remain rooted. In one way or another, the knowledge that I could walk a hundred rounds around the estate and return to find it still there, of course, offers a modest kind of comfort.

But sometimes I can't help but miss the indefinite quality of Fiction. I miss pushing open the window and seeing a light, which takes no form and shape, but which I can manipulate and think into existence a new creation of sorts. I could create a night, with stars and clouds that drift ever so slowly over a sleeping landscape. I could create a day, with blue skies and a sun whose heat is warm upon my skin. On days when I'm sad I could create rains that plunder so heavily to earth that everything is a foggy silhouette beyond a translucent curtain of obscuration. There was so much imaginative freedom. Things happened for me. I didn't have happen for things. And that, in all aspects, was all it took to truly live.

Someday, when my work is done in Reality, I will go back to Fiction and enjoy my days of retirement by immersing myself in the creations I have quit such a long time ago. Only when I have reunited with what I truly need to do will I be revived.

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~~~*Played with the winds at 11.33pm*~~~

Aurinya blogged at 11:33 PM

Roaming the Winds