Instances

Instances

The memories of emotion speaks in softer tongues than the instant itself. With something so predominately obvious why is it that a great majority of those things we chase after is a longing to return to the past or to find fulfillment in the future? Although all art tries to recreate this instant, this instant, there is nothing more artistically refined, or dramatically structured than this instant. The magically moment we come in contact with this instant it seems as if its gone together already, and here we are again, longing for that imperceptible moment, the silly gaze between two intervals of thoughts, the lost lapse in the mind. Pictures, movies, nostalgia, literature, music, nothing can bring back this instant of emotion, no matter now hard they seem to try. It's always as if we take the smallest, most insignificant things away from this instant, and leave the beauty out of it. That's why the instant is never there. The incidence of infinite elegance.

That instance lingers sometimes. Pulsing pangs of some sort. Deep melancholy. There used to be a time in which I had severe mood swings. Back then one of the only catharsis I would have would to write. I think when a person writes, some part of their personality is carried out by their words, little packets of meaning from the mind. So when I would rant out in these bitter moments of sudden catharsis, all that would come out would be this bile of language, unsophisticated vomit of words. I suppose a person learns after moments like these of how to act or how to not act. But there are just some times that can't be helped and the suppressed personality finds its way out through these pores that I should have just drowned in a pleasant, although false, emotion.

More and more, for some reason I seem to be pinning myself to depriving myself of happiness. The basis of art is not happiness. Is that a faulted mindset? Am I subjugating myself to something that could easily be avoided? My head hurts. I don't know. I realized for a lot of my blogs I end with that phrase, "I don't know".And I think that's the truest phrase of them all, I don't know. Nothing more of myself has come to light in these funny moments or instances or so-called illuminance. It's just these words... Words.

I am a collection of thought, but to you, I am a collection of words, and that is the only representation and judgement one is offered in this image based, preconception oriented world. Sounds like something I wrote before.

One other thing. I realize what it means when a person's face shines with the glory of God. Somehow you can tell. But a lot of us are pretty dark, the only shades of us that shine are our bad ones.