I was talking with a special friend of mine tonight. He's a philosopher, and we share in common, the same philosophy. Whenever something happens, something deep, or when I feel or think something, especially the biggest questions of my entire life, I talk with him about it. So far, this has lead to my learning some things that have cleared the metaphorical fog from my mind like nothing before. He's a very special friend, and I am unspeakably lucky to have encountered such a person in this little town, and to have become friends with him. I cherish every talk we have.
Ever since I can remember, there have been things that inspired me. "Inspire", not just interest. Not intrigue. I remember sometimes being so restless with inspiration that I couldn't sit still, I couldn't stand it, I wanted to laugh, and run as fast as I could, and cry, all at the same time. I couldn't explain it. I had to something with these feelings. I didn't know what. I felt it when I listened to the music of my favorite video game, Pokemon Mystery Dungeon. The atmospheric music of this game was one of the things that made me feel this way. The atmospheres of all different places, like those in Pokemon, Final Fantasy, and Hayao Miyazaki's films were always some of the most inspiring things to me. Pokemon and Final Fantasy has such fantastic worlds, and the music was always one of the main aspects for me. Hayao Miyazaki's art, the worlds he created, they made me feel like this. Stories, deep, meaningful stories in worlds bursting with color created by music, beautiful landscapes of all different kinds. I never understood why I loved half the things I loved so much.
I drew all the time. I began to write. I gave up drawing, thinking it impossible to every draw all these staggering, expansive worlds I saw. I never pursued music, thinking it was way too distant a dream to ever try to touch. I never fully came to terms with these things. I just stopped drawing and I just subconsciously swept music off the table. I began to write novels. It was quiet, and private. It was what I decided to do. But I tried building so many stories not on the foundation of ideals and plot, but on the mental images of beautiful places. I never realized what I was doing or why I failed.
Tonight, my friend said only a few words and my mind has completely spun out from there. We discussed it for a while, some different things, while my mind was racing. "You could write your stories, and then animate them." Hayao Miyazaki immediately came to mind. Then, my drawing, and how I stopped back then. Why I stopped. Music... storytelling. They can all integrate in this way. Landscape, atmosphere, storytelling, music. Everything that's every shaken me to my core, made me shudder with exaltation at the idea of some abstraction, some grandeur, unnameable. They all integrate here.
Separate, they aren't incomplete. But integrated... in this form, these images not just explained but shown, physical images of them, moving through these worlds, music creating the atmospheres of these living, animated images... it was like an epiphany. I should be in bed, asleep right now. But I can't. I had to mark this. This night, this feeling, these thoughts. Not a new beginning, not a start from scratch. But a more complete, integrated reality. I may go on for a while as a novelist, and a musician, and I may begin learning art. The girl I love is always drawing characters, utilizing interesting art software. An old friend of mine is a skilled artist who's drawn many characters of my stories, expertly. I'm not as directionless as I am, for now, in the way of learning music. Maybe I can find some direction from them. All of this tonight has taken my breath away, a sudden realization, a sudden glimpse of a dimension of almost blindingly beautiful possibilities. And I stopped and thought... am I, Nero, to be an animator?
I'm not a naturalist. There is no force superior to me that's making me what I am. I detest this idea. But, there is something almost similar to that... this drive, seemingly innate within me, a part of my soul- my soul, being a metaphor. There is nothing pulling strings attached to me, nothing is responsible for all that I am, except me. I am the arbiter of my own destiny, I am the chooser of my every path, I am the keeper of the flames of passion that have engulfed my spirit. And yet, this destiny is so natural to me, so tied with my spirit it almost seems as though it were my destiny from the start. From the moment I was born, predestined. In reality, it's a foolish idea. And that shows, in contrast, how perfect it has all integrated, in reality, within my mind. Man struggles to reflect an image of his spirit. His ideals. He does it in many ways. This is my way. This is how I achieve it. This is how unshackle my spirit.