I like the smell of pumpkins cooking. The smell reminds me of happy 80's films set in America during Christmas time and "Thanks giving". I've always been nostalgic to an extraordinary degree. My actual memories overlap with memories of films, daydreams and happy scenes that never really happened to me in reality.
There is a beauty within melancholy. It's like a furry lens covering all of the photographs in my mind. It distracts the viewer from the parts where the character faced times of conflict; but better yet - it covers the times where there isn't even a memory of conflict. It's a collage with many fragments, and in between those fragments is lost time.
Time sits in a Waiting Room. The waiting room is filled with people who exude a nervous energy of anticipation and hope. They follow the normal rules of a drama. These people go through concrete and understandable disasters. Things like cancer, divorce, trauma...after these experiences and battles people pat them on the back and commend them on their strength of will.
Conflict builds character. "Whatever doesn't kill me will only make me stronger." I would agree with the principle behind such a statement if it weren't for the fact that in my case the things that haven't killed me have created a weathering effect; a corrosion of sorts. The places where the waves struck against the shore have worn away. Slowly, and not in an obvious fashion - so to all who view me I am a mountain. I stand there doing my duty. I am "strong" because as a mountain I have survived. Surviving is the right thing to do, falling apart is frowned upon.
It makes sense. I have rarely seen a person come to admire a pile of rubble. A rugged mountain range is noble, stoic, brave. A pile of rubble is a pile of rubble. It could break down further until it becomes the sand that sparkles in the sun...when drops of the sea splash upon it. In that form it is "pretty", and again, photogenic. The most important part is its value to society; its usefulness and prettiness. If one cannot be a rugged mountain, one must be a pretty picture, or at least something useful. Drifting into the waves is not really an option.
"What are you doing?"
You must always be "doing". If you are not doing, you are being. We are human-doings, not human-beings. Whoever said it was the opposite way around never stopped doing long enough for someone to ask them "what are you doing?" and "do something so I may take a picture of you!"
I suppose it is a good idea to take those pictures. If we didn't have those pictures, we may end up like the ones still stuck in the Waiting Room with plasters on their heads. No matter how long they sit there the doctor won't come. Even if the doctor came for them, they obviously found their license in a cereal box because they have plastered people's hearts by putting plasters on the heads.
"Doctor, please my heart hurts!" cries the patient. A student doctor enters the room and tightens the band-aids around the patients head. The real doctor isn't available. He is too busy tying up feet.
Thankfully I have cut up pictures and screenshots from heart-warming tales. I have crudely sewn them together to hide the holes. Hopefully when the doctor visits me they will see that my head is filled up with the same things as everyone else.
· Memories of the smell of Thanks Giving pumpkins - check
· Glittering photos of washed up shells upon the beach - check
· Smiling families eating around a table - check
I bet they will be impressed when they see how photogenic I am. Picture perfect.
There is a beauty within melancholy. It's like a furry lens covering all of the photographs in my mind. It distracts the viewer from the parts where the character faced times of conflict; but better yet - it covers the times where there isn't even a memory of conflict. It's a collage with many fragments, and in between those fragments is lost time.
Time sits in a Waiting Room. The waiting room is filled with people who exude a nervous energy of anticipation and hope. They follow the normal rules of a drama. These people go through concrete and understandable disasters. Things like cancer, divorce, trauma...after these experiences and battles people pat them on the back and commend them on their strength of will.
Conflict builds character. "Whatever doesn't kill me will only make me stronger." I would agree with the principle behind such a statement if it weren't for the fact that in my case the things that haven't killed me have created a weathering effect; a corrosion of sorts. The places where the waves struck against the shore have worn away. Slowly, and not in an obvious fashion - so to all who view me I am a mountain. I stand there doing my duty. I am "strong" because as a mountain I have survived. Surviving is the right thing to do, falling apart is frowned upon.
It makes sense. I have rarely seen a person come to admire a pile of rubble. A rugged mountain range is noble, stoic, brave. A pile of rubble is a pile of rubble. It could break down further until it becomes the sand that sparkles in the sun...when drops of the sea splash upon it. In that form it is "pretty", and again, photogenic. The most important part is its value to society; its usefulness and prettiness. If one cannot be a rugged mountain, one must be a pretty picture, or at least something useful. Drifting into the waves is not really an option.
"What are you doing?"
You must always be "doing". If you are not doing, you are being. We are human-doings, not human-beings. Whoever said it was the opposite way around never stopped doing long enough for someone to ask them "what are you doing?" and "do something so I may take a picture of you!"
I suppose it is a good idea to take those pictures. If we didn't have those pictures, we may end up like the ones still stuck in the Waiting Room with plasters on their heads. No matter how long they sit there the doctor won't come. Even if the doctor came for them, they obviously found their license in a cereal box because they have plastered people's hearts by putting plasters on the heads.
"Doctor, please my heart hurts!" cries the patient. A student doctor enters the room and tightens the band-aids around the patients head. The real doctor isn't available. He is too busy tying up feet.
Thankfully I have cut up pictures and screenshots from heart-warming tales. I have crudely sewn them together to hide the holes. Hopefully when the doctor visits me they will see that my head is filled up with the same things as everyone else.
· Memories of the smell of Thanks Giving pumpkins - check
· Glittering photos of washed up shells upon the beach - check
· Smiling families eating around a table - check
I bet they will be impressed when they see how photogenic I am. Picture perfect.
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