i crashed before the birth of ᴄ ʜ ʀ ɪ s ᴛ ,
- .++++pterodactyls s ᴡ ᴀ ʀ ᴍ ɪ ɴ ɢ ;
- .+++++you ᴅ ɪ ᴇ ᴅ in 1 9 8 9 ,
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I figured it was about time I make someplace for me to throw out my old poems, musing, and more. I write a lot! I guess it makes sense, seeing as I am an English major with a specialty in creative writing, hahah. I may not have a lot of prospective job opportunities, but hot damn, I'll be able to write about it!
I'll start with something I wrote tonight.
reality
I figured it was about time I make someplace for me to throw out my old poems, musing, and more. I write a lot! I guess it makes sense, seeing as I am an English major with a specialty in creative writing, hahah. I may not have a lot of prospective job opportunities, but hot damn, I'll be able to write about it!
I'll start with something I wrote tonight.
reality
I was first asked about the meaning of reality - and I mean really asked, not just as an offhand remark - about a year and a half ago. It was winter, and it was my first semester at school. College. College does that to you. It asks all kinds of questions of you, and expects you to have a definitive answer. You are born and raised as a child to see and question, and learn facts. You should know, and if you do not know, you should think about it so that you may learn, and therefore know. So what was I supposed to do when I realized that the things I 'knew' meant nothing? That they were not reality, they were not necessarily the truth?
I felt so small.
I was just one person in a sea of billions, standing in a parking lot in a parka, watching the snow upon my boots melt and slide off into a pile of slush. I was just one person, one being, one thought. So what made my reality any more real than the next person's? The next being's? The next thought's? If I could think of it, was it true? But then, what was truth? How could you say any one thing was correct over another thing?
It hurt my head. I was one person, and I was questioning, and it hurt to think about it, and I felt empty.
Was that reality? Was I really, truly empty? Was there a reason for that? How could my logical, analytical tendencies dissolve in front of me like the snow on my boots? Were they being replaced by these questions? These made-up truths and fabricated realities? The thoughts of what could be and should be and are and why they exist and how and where they come from and the reason they are needed and when they were created and who created them and ultimately, was there really even a right or wrong answer?
It was cold.
I refused to think about it.
I refused to accept it.
But in believing in it, and its existence, the thought of reality became its own reality.
I don't know what reality is, or was, or will be. And that is my reality. It is there not for me to write it as I move along, but for me to speculate upon. It is there to inspire me. It is there for me to know that there is always an uncertainty to sit alongside my constants. But most of all, it is there for me to see that with every dark patch of unknown, there is a patch of light and creation, equally expansive.
And in that light, I live. I question. I become.
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{☼} i want to get back to that ᴍ ᴏ ʀ ɴ ɪ ɴ ɢ in ᴍ ᴀ ʏ .
