There are parts of me that I miss. I don’t know what they are or where they’re at right now, but I do miss these parts. I wonder if they’re asleep or dead. Does it really matter? It doesn’t matter if they come to life again because I take solace in the fact that they existed once upon a time. That’s the case with all of my love, I’ve learned to be grateful for it than to regret it not having lasted. I learned to embrace a lost love than to blame it. The moments in our lives that make us feel happy are so limited, so short and yet they are the ones we should hold on to. I do hold on to them. I feel that they are like the movie version of life, they are what we count our lives to be in the edited version.
Some pain brings joy at the end, and that pain is celebrated, and remembered. For all the pain is to a joyous end. The memories I have most trouble with are the good ones that are poisoned in the finale. It is extremely unsettling to find that great moments may be turned into bitter memories that would not leave us be. It is unsettling that the love which we hold most dear can turn into a lie, and that is the worst kind of memory, when all that was good about it turns out fake.
There are many parts of me that delve deeper than what the forefront of my thoughts can bring to comprehension. My understanding of them is limited, but my feeling is not. I miss these parts the most, that take me beyond where my own conscious deliberate thoughts can. They are like fine instruments that produce sounds that my voice cannot.
I’ve read a lot recently about the meaning of life, I’ve even read two books that speak about such a topic. The phrase is appealing to the parts of me that I miss, that ponder over this question long enough to dive into its depths. I do not think I feel an urge to consider that life is meaningless, it is not. The words I write to myself give it meaning.
Much of what happens around me brings about contemplation, but it seems that it takes much for events to seep through. I was asked before if I would give up my idle abstract wonderings that I seem to be addicted to, and I answered that I would. It all seems so meaningless really, but it’s how I’m built. I feel that my thoughts are a response to this irrational need of finding deeper things even though their existence may be fictitious.
2 comments:
Very deep stuff.
Although it's melancholic isn't it the 'poison' that infects our good memories what make them good? without that poison and the negative we wouldn't be able to appreciate the positive as we wouldn't know any better.
I don't believe that it turns out to be 'fake', I believe that all the love experienced during a relationship and all the raw emotion may be seen as fake at the end or in hindsight because it's easier to think that it never existed than we have lost it so easily and so quickly.
Thoughts on this?
I'm actually mainly talking about treason that ruins everything before it. If all the good times are a trick for the final act of treason, it becomes fake.
I'm not talking at all about something natural turning bad, this is part of the good memories, but when you discover you have been deceived or betrayed is closer to my meaning.
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