And by sky high, I merely meant that I am currently sitting in seat 34D (the last seat on the right side, near the lavatory) on this Delta airplane. An Asian (I believe Chinese based on the language-I studied Mandarin in college) woman is fast asleep next to me while her son watches Pepper Pig on an iPad. There’s a sense of isolation in this position, but do not mistake it for loneliness. I desire this solitude. It makes the traveling…less hectic; and, I am blessed with the ability to decipher my thoughts-this is an added plus when one is at the beginning of something.
A new chapter began this week, and it started with a DM (yes, a direct message). How can something so simple, and partially ridiculed by society, start a revolution in me? Because, I had to take the risk, and create an opportunity that was previously nonexistent. When that message left my device it didn’t matter if it landed in the inbox (it did), or if they didn’t respond (they did).
What mattered then, and still does now is that I will waste no time being a content observer, not when my dream is to be a director. A director does witness, but only does so to devise their next action-either born from strategic intent, or sheer improvisation. This I wish I could say I knew already, but I only realized it this past Sunday, when I watched my script come to life on a screen.
Foresight has informed me of my foundation; it is built upon opportunities, risks, tactics, faith, fear (and the conquering of it), and so much more.
I feel as if I’m a missing member of this Asian family, for they are steadily drifting toward my seat; but, they are at peace so I will not disturb them. On this voyage to my new life, I am alone, and in this aloneness, I will learn who I am. Maybe I will discover that I am like one of the dull faced drones who previously occupied the boarding area. This creativity and talent could be a fluke, a momentary spark in the darkness that showed signs of blossoming into a blaze, only to die when the ventilation blew too hard. I may very well die, and I quote the great Billy Crystal “one of those New York deaths where nobody notices for weeks until the smell starts to seep through.”
This is a possibility that this reality materializes but, luckily, this isn’t my only option. No, there are countless others, one for each word that my pen writes. And, this is the reality I dare to choose… A realm solely made for the manifestation of whatever dreams I dare to dream. Yes, I am not only a dreamer (ahem, Pisces), but a do-er as well; and though I live for a challenge, there is nothing like conquering a task that was given by the self. I accepted long ago that my spirit is a seeker. It desires to chase. What it desires, honestly, depends on the day of the week. Why be confined to one choice anyways?
I have talked quite lengthily about my next adventure, however, I must now address the actions that are required for it. Truthfully…I don’t know the next step after arrival. And this may, possibly, be the ideal answer for anyone in my position; the act of leaving the specifics of each step to the self that encounters it. Technically, there is nothing one can do now to bring a reality into fruition, and yet they can do everything as well. Confused? I know, that’s how I feel as this mother and son cuddle, now encroaching in my chair space-bubble-aura-thing.
I wish to turn on the light-there is no window at this seat-however, I, again, do not wish to disturb them. Irony at its finest, because seconds ago my flash nearly blinded us (I failed to take a picture of the distance, or centimeters, between our shoulders). It’s fitting that I am writing in the dark, the physical manifestation of “Unknown.”
I, much like the rest of humanity, am unaware of what to expect out of this life. This has been learned, along with the idea that expectations are arbitrary anchors; they ground us on abstract shores, creating the delusion that our vessels are steadily rocking with the seagulls rather than descending into the briny blackwater. I can’t preach to you as if I’m immune to them; they still do appear in my mind, but their appearance does not signify acceptance.Just like the child who recently stirred in his mother’s lap, I am young and naive; however, I am aware of the power of choice. This is what separates me from the anchor, and depart from the comforting (or complacent) seaside cottage. I will not be bound to the rusted chains of a dying reality, instead I will shed the expectation before embarking on each experience. Without the imaginary safety net for insurance, I will be granted two options: sink or swim.
By eliminating the “what if” factor of setting expectations, and tolerating the tension associated with the presence of the “Unknown”…maybe, just maybe, I can prepare my soul for the next voyage. Without expectations present, action is now the required force to create a reality, a result, or a byproduct of a risk. Action is required if I wish to best the “Unknown”; if I wish to best the darkness within. No longer are the days of silent observation, from this day onward, I will be the director that I’ve dreamed of becoming.
The sky yawned this morning.
It drowsily rubbed away the darkness as the sun awakened.
Cotton pillows fluffed while the first rays of the day spread across the horizon.
From such a vast height one forgets that there is a world full of sleeping folk below, because we are the early bird.
The sky soaring albatross that beats its blackened wings against the wind, heading westward with hopes of sharing its feathers with those who have never known the joy of flight.
A familiar scent fills my nose, and I remember everything: the passion we shared, the tears we shed, and I crave it all. I crave you, to feel your nails on my back. Delicately scrawling my skin, just enough to cause my hairs to raise.
How soft your lips each time I press them, your body touching mine.
I fail to realize how much I missed you until I’m about to let you go.
The walls begin to crumble and the sun peeks through the waking haze. The night has fled and our reality is steadily approaching. It hurts, we know what happens once we leave…
So we stay.
Fighting any form of tiredness or responsibility. Desperately latched to a moment unable to be shared any longer, our moment of truth.
Where for a brief instant, we are the constellations at the center of our galaxy.
You are mine, and I am yours.
I am trying to absorb every ounce of you that I can because, deep down, I know I won’t be able to take you with me. You hold onto my lips as if they were the teat of life. Don’t leave me, you whisper in my ear.
The lie leaves my lips as we depart from your car, at four in the morning.
Why is it that after centuries and millennia of intelligent life, humanity can still not answer any scientific inquiries regarding art?
Simple, art is the product of an essence.
When an individual has tapped into a wellspring of pure love (love for the soul, and life), then art will be created. It began with techniques being refined, individuals daring to perfect a craft, while, simultaneously, discovering the self that exists underneath both the logic and instinct. Art germinated from the universe that the soul occupies, and, just as we will never know the vastness of space, we must accept the reality that art will always yield unanswered questions.
That is the true beauty of it; humanity is incessantly seeking answers (hence the creation of science), and yet, there are some individuals brave enough to propose a question without punctuation. A sculpture with polished eyes, a watercolor painting of a London fishing wharf, a duet for a six stringed violin and piano; these are not simply creations, but conclusions. They are the final product of an artist’s mind, seeking a truth-maybe within themselves, within the world, or within the moment. It remains elusive, like the shimmering waves of an oasis, lost in a desert of dry bones, tyrannical heat, and endless grains of sand.
Art will inevitably save humanity from itself; without art, man would’ve died out centuries ago. However, now, the culture is depraved. Men and women are mere followers, and art has been tainted. It has degenerated, and instead of a select few providing us with their developed conclusions, we, as a society full of impatient students and consumers, have closed our hearts to them. We all wish to produce a magnum opus without the life lessons from The Master.
Art is not dying, however, it is suffering. Hanging onto it’s last breath as we attempt to exist without it. How foolish we really are.