Went down a massive memory lane, hell, more like a landslide, when I had to back up my pictures. So many people that aren't here anymore, so many people that aren't me anymore, so many me's that I no longer am, so many we's that changed to they's that changed to those who must not be named. I terribly miss all the them's, us's and me's, but I wouldn't contact any of them if I had a gun to my head. Everything changes so fast; it feels like I've had a thousand lives mushed into one.
The way I see it, I hope that never stops, I hope that a couple of years from now I'll have made a thousand more, ones that hurt like a motherfucker and ones that ease you into puppy heaven. I'll have it all, thank you very much, with fries on the side.
Real touchy area, memories are. I can see why they can break people. When you come to think of it, it's not about how much you look into it, but how you look at it. It's all about the vantage point. Running with that particularly shitty metaphor to make it even shittier, that's what sets assassins and targets apart, but at the end of the day, the bird's view wins and the bird takes home the house cup with a glorious dump on either party.
Summer break is almost here, merely a couple of days away, and I went online to scout any available internships that I could dive into and scab me some knees. Usual routine, I drew up my CV and made a few changes, and while I was editing it I scrolled up to the naive part where I state my short-term and long-term objectives. To my surprise, I found that in between now and the time I last edited it - being less than four months ago - all of them have changed. I no longer wanted any of those things. Shit, I thought, I'm gonna have to re-write that, but I was too tired, so I stumbled off to the bathroom and it was over there that it really hit me. The last surprise was the lighter news of the two, what really caught me off guard was the realization that holy fucking shit I think I know what I wanna do with my life. And guess what? Right down to the letter, it happened on the can.
At 8:12 PM, on the 28th of May 2015, during my third year of college, right around the time of my life where my cynical nature and my sense of humour made an iron clad truce that left me swinging blind and begging for mercy in equal measure, when my reality was largely an elaboration on that field out there where right and wrong don't exist but dragons and gremlins do, on an irrelevant evening while sitting on the can; it came to me. Or should I say I got there? Who knows how the hell it works, or if it works at all.
You'd think this shit takes spreadsheets you know? You'd think it takes trudging up slippery mountains of unimaginable heights to meet a recluse hermit and beg him for truth in exchange of that lost treasure you had to dig out of an alabastar cave where it nestled in a monster's lair and you had to snatch it out of the claws of a violent, insomniac bear or some shit.
I haven't even given it any thought, I just knew. Kind of like how I knew when I was in danger, or how I knew when I was in love. But I repeat myself.
I know what I wanna be you guys, the tough part's over.
Or is it? Now comes the part after I know it where I want it, get attached to it, build hopes on it, pursue it, get jilted time and time again, get rejected over and over, not find the opportunity, fail to perform when I get one, and the great possibility of it not working out at all.
Aw man, here we go again.
But the I can see all the obstacles in my way part is a story for another time.
For now, back on the I can see clearly now the rain is gone bit.
Whether sunshine is ever in, I couldn't tell. Unfortunately I'm not psychic.
A change of heart marks a great transition, and a shift in aspiration definitely marks a change of heart. This might be the first major transition - that's not forced upon me by extenuating circumstances but came from within - that I'm conscious of. To be honest, I don't remember what made 5-year-old me give up on 3-year-old me's dream of being an astronaut to being a painter, but this one I'm old enough to see, feel and remember. This one I get to cherish in words rather than just viscerally. That is if I can find them.
So let's see, first conscious transition, what it's like you ask? If a sigh of relief was driving a car at 900 mph jammed into a truck hauling 500 tons of options that have been eliminated, the part of the explosion that contaminates the air of the observable universe but merely scratches the surface of what is happening on a molecular level brackets the spectrum of how it feels, alone. Definition of each escapes adrenalin-choked me, who only registers exhileration at the sight of the biggest show of fireworks my mortal eyes have ever seen.
What it's like in my head at the point of collision sees the molecular cirque-du-soleil act and raises it, giving the celestial dealer the biggest boner he's ever had, sapping out his mental energy in what appears to the philosophical onlooker as equilibrium helplessly resetting itself, while reason scuttles away and re-asserts herself in the far corner, out of sight, where she can dignifiably adjust her stockings without a greedy host making a move on her. As to how I'm gonna remember it, that's for future me to know, and present me to wonder about, as if she doesn't have enough to wonder about already.
The way I see it, I hope that never stops, I hope that a couple of years from now I'll have made a thousand more, ones that hurt like a motherfucker and ones that ease you into puppy heaven. I'll have it all, thank you very much, with fries on the side.
Real touchy area, memories are. I can see why they can break people. When you come to think of it, it's not about how much you look into it, but how you look at it. It's all about the vantage point. Running with that particularly shitty metaphor to make it even shittier, that's what sets assassins and targets apart, but at the end of the day, the bird's view wins and the bird takes home the house cup with a glorious dump on either party.
Bird's the word.
Summer break is almost here, merely a couple of days away, and I went online to scout any available internships that I could dive into and scab me some knees. Usual routine, I drew up my CV and made a few changes, and while I was editing it I scrolled up to the naive part where I state my short-term and long-term objectives. To my surprise, I found that in between now and the time I last edited it - being less than four months ago - all of them have changed. I no longer wanted any of those things. Shit, I thought, I'm gonna have to re-write that, but I was too tired, so I stumbled off to the bathroom and it was over there that it really hit me. The last surprise was the lighter news of the two, what really caught me off guard was the realization that holy fucking shit I think I know what I wanna do with my life. And guess what? Right down to the letter, it happened on the can.
At 8:12 PM, on the 28th of May 2015, during my third year of college, right around the time of my life where my cynical nature and my sense of humour made an iron clad truce that left me swinging blind and begging for mercy in equal measure, when my reality was largely an elaboration on that field out there where right and wrong don't exist but dragons and gremlins do, on an irrelevant evening while sitting on the can; it came to me. Or should I say I got there? Who knows how the hell it works, or if it works at all.
You'd think this shit takes spreadsheets you know? You'd think it takes trudging up slippery mountains of unimaginable heights to meet a recluse hermit and beg him for truth in exchange of that lost treasure you had to dig out of an alabastar cave where it nestled in a monster's lair and you had to snatch it out of the claws of a violent, insomniac bear or some shit.
I haven't even given it any thought, I just knew. Kind of like how I knew when I was in danger, or how I knew when I was in love. But I repeat myself.
I know what I wanna be you guys, the tough part's over.
Or is it? Now comes the part after I know it where I want it, get attached to it, build hopes on it, pursue it, get jilted time and time again, get rejected over and over, not find the opportunity, fail to perform when I get one, and the great possibility of it not working out at all.
Aw man, here we go again.
But the I can see all the obstacles in my way part is a story for another time.
For now, back on the I can see clearly now the rain is gone bit.
Whether sunshine is ever in, I couldn't tell. Unfortunately I'm not psychic.
A change of heart marks a great transition, and a shift in aspiration definitely marks a change of heart. This might be the first major transition - that's not forced upon me by extenuating circumstances but came from within - that I'm conscious of. To be honest, I don't remember what made 5-year-old me give up on 3-year-old me's dream of being an astronaut to being a painter, but this one I'm old enough to see, feel and remember. This one I get to cherish in words rather than just viscerally. That is if I can find them.
So let's see, first conscious transition, what it's like you ask? If a sigh of relief was driving a car at 900 mph jammed into a truck hauling 500 tons of options that have been eliminated, the part of the explosion that contaminates the air of the observable universe but merely scratches the surface of what is happening on a molecular level brackets the spectrum of how it feels, alone. Definition of each escapes adrenalin-choked me, who only registers exhileration at the sight of the biggest show of fireworks my mortal eyes have ever seen.
What it's like in my head at the point of collision sees the molecular cirque-du-soleil act and raises it, giving the celestial dealer the biggest boner he's ever had, sapping out his mental energy in what appears to the philosophical onlooker as equilibrium helplessly resetting itself, while reason scuttles away and re-asserts herself in the far corner, out of sight, where she can dignifiably adjust her stockings without a greedy host making a move on her. As to how I'm gonna remember it, that's for future me to know, and present me to wonder about, as if she doesn't have enough to wonder about already.
One thing I can say for sure though, seeing years-worth of things and not having the capacity to register them in my tender, human pod, and it is this: I pity witches. Getting burned at the stake must have been a mercy kill. No wonder witches died laughing.
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