Sanity Fair

I have this life; short or long as it may be, it is my own to do with was I please. I can stop or chase. I can give or take. It is my adventure, every day.

I have my mind; to make decisions, judgements. It aids me in making mistakes. It keeps me awake at night. I cant shut it up, shut it off. The true love/hate relationship.

I have my imagination; to keep me warm on lonely nights. It is the only thing truly mine, though it exists through help of everything, of everyone I’ve ever met. It is what keeps me alive. It is what makes me realize that I would rather die still wanting, rather than perishing through contentment.

I have my friends; those who make me realize that perhaps I already have everything I have always wanted. They assure me, desert me, abuse me, and love me. I think any true friendship is all of these things. It would have to be. Friends help you every step of the way, even if it’s lessons you dont want to learn.

I have my past; without it I would not have my future. I cannot realize it fully, I can only recall it through a blurry lens. I live life as I remember it, not as it truly existed. But so do we all.

I have my future; to look upon fondly. To hope, to wonder about fate, my future is what makes me question everything. Something I can never have, never touch, never hope to ever conceive of. If I were to relate it to something human, it will always be the ‘one that got away’.

I have this moment; always in my control. I cannot change my past, I cannot touch my future. All we ever have is this moment, never good nor evil. It is clay and nothing else. But it never remains untouched. Even if you do nothing, it takes shape. Sometimes it mocks you, sometimes it inspires you. But it is forever present. It cannot be shaken. It exists always, as long as I exist. It is my shadow, but always shrugging it’s shoulders; asking, what now?

All the little flowers that popped up in my yard are probably silently screaming, WTF MOTHER NATURE?!

I am back into a typography obsessed mood, pictures to come.

Another month reminds me 2012 is a year, like an anthology. Just like any other year. Time kept together in neat volumes. Sometimes I want to tear the pages out, but sometimes I really love just looking at such a wonderfully kept library.

No waves here.

“Sometimes you’re invited to a big ball and for months you think about how glamorous and exciting it’s going to be. Then you fly to Europe and you go to the ball and when you think back on it a couple of months later what you remember is maybe the car ride to the ball, you can’t remember the ball at all. Sometimes the little times you don’t think are anything while they’re happening turn out to be what marks a whole period of your life. I should have been dreaming for months about the car ride to the ball and getting dressed for the car ride, and buying my ticket to Europe so I could take the car ride. Then, who knows, maybe I could have remembered the ball.”

-Andy Warhol

I like possibilities. I could say that perhaps I’m even a little bit in love with them. They are perpetual and virgin. They say life is full of them, so that may explain why I can be a bit of a romantic when it comes to living and being human. But I do often wonder if it’s some sort of ironic torture to exist in a realm of possibilities forever. I was thinking about knowledge, truth, and just how awful it would be to know everything, to have all the answers. Is that even possible? Would our eyes glaze over and our minds turn into paper weights, with no more real purpose?

But what is worse? Being forever in a perpetual state, or being in a completed state? Is there even a gray area there? Is there a different state of existence I’m not considering? Or is there another state of existence we aren’t even aware of yet?

I’m hoping for the latter, hey, it’s a possibility.

I dont really have a central focus for this blog. Lately I have had building urges to write. I prefer to hand write my thoughts, and I do keep little notebooks and journals, but overall I am not very productive because I usually have too much on my mind, and I wont finish my thoughts. It is probably a time thing, it takes longer to write everything out on paper, so I tend to get discouraged without even really thinking about it. But I still do write out some things. Paper allows for some things that this doesn’t. I have considered getting a typewriter, an old fashioned kind. I always liked the look of it.

I write about a lot of things. I strive to not be too systematic about it, not to worry too much about the raw form, just get it out, but its a continuing struggle. I worry too much, about how the words come across. I find that funny because I have no one in mind who would read any of it, but it’s always a possibility.

I don’t know if 27 is a weird age for anyone else, but it is a bit to me. 25-27 have been weird years, but not necessarily in a bad way. I don’t think it’s just the age thing, but circumstances and how my life has played out. I think I have been in a sort of whirlwind the last few years, with so much going on I didn’t really see time passing. So I find 27 to be a weird age, mainly because I feel I have changed a lot in a short time, or perhaps, I have changed a lot over a long period of time, but I am realizing it only now, in a rapid fashion. Parts of it are unsettling, but mostly I have enjoyed a somewhat new state of mind.

I can’t say for sure what I will write about. I have a lot of interests, such as politics, philosophy, history. I am also a huge lover of film and have been watching more and more movies lately, all kinds, from all decades. I work as an artist so I will inevitable discuss things in the art world, what I’m working on, and things related.

Most of all I will probably simply write about life, how I think, things that have happened to me. I think my desire to write deals most with self reflection. Not only, how did I get here, but also where is “here” in comparison to everything else out there. Becoming an adult, I have come to find that I don’t think I could ever have imagined what being 27 would be like, the same way I cant at this moment understand at all what being 37 is going to be like. Because it’s not just about what happens from 27-37, but also, how I feel in relation to my entire past. I now have a past. As children, we don’t have much of a past. I think that this is the first time in my life that I have enough of a past that I start to question it, to figure out who I was, who am I now, and how I developed to think and feel the way I do today.

I am not a perfect person, but I will strive to be honest in these writings, because I really don’t enjoy lying to myself, I don’t see the point. I have always been fairly realistic about things. But I am also for the most part and optimist. It may seem at times I am not, but I can assure you I am. I am simply someone who is becoming less and less afraid of going deeper and deeper into the human condition, to find what exists beneath it all. Sometimes it scares the fuck out of me. But I can’t say I don’t enjoy those moments.

So I write.