kazza_baby
Bluelighter
It fascinates me how this world revolves around the grandiloquence of woe.
After reading Norwegian Wood and watching the video for Kuwarto, I have claimed the existence of sadness’ functionality in each one of us, as if it were a body part, an organ. Almost similar to our inborn traits such as sex and aggression, I believe that sadness is one thing we all cannot live without because strictly speaking, it is sadness and the onslaught of pain that makes us truly alive.
Now, pain and sadness are two different things as they pertain to different aspects of our being. There occurs an interchangeability of the physical and spiritual such as when you shift gears in a car, and sadness and pain are felt simultaneously but separately. But of course, the delineation of the two proves to be very hard, so very hard indeed, that we choose to forego the distinction and settle for a chopsuey of emotions and sensations, associating one with the other, and in the process giving in to a complete likeness. This makes life easier, of course.
I find it inoperably funny and pathetic how such novels as the aforementioned eases me into tumbling backwards into all my past relationships with boys and girls and more boys. Suddenly, I think about all of them all at once and then one at a time, seeking out the best times, picking them out from the infinite worst. And then I compare. I shrink them down into tiny glass marbles, each of a different weight, color, and size. Then I lay them on a table side by side so as to brighten the contrast. Who was the best kisser? Who cracked the funniest jokes? Who came the closest to love? Many times I go over my comparisons and then think about all of them, boyfriends and girlfriends and summer-any-season flings, for a last time and bid them goodbye until another wistful novel grips me into a chokehold of memories, both dormant and living. In this way, I find it sort of trivial to evaluate life using past, failed relationships. Trivial, yes, but effective.
Ah, how sadness gets the best of us sometimes. No, not nostalgia. Just sadness.
And this kind of sadness does not open itself to pain. See what I mean about how the two can live disjointedly? But then, maybe not yet.
What welcomes pain is the present. Encounters of the now, the people and places of the time ticking in your wristwatch.
Shall we compare? But that is beyond the point. The pain does not come from regret, after all, for that is now a completely different story. Pain comes from realising two ownerships: the past and the present, and the limitation that you could only fully own one.
It is not a matter of choice, if that is what you are thinking, but more of a matter of belongingness and home. Following this is a sharp stinging into the middle of your chest, where you once felt your heart, and where you now feel a heavy nothingness. Here we are bordering between the physical and the spiritual, the soul and the body. How nice to live in both at once.
Yes, it is sadness that keeps us most alive. But if were so, I would rather just be a happy robot. But then looking deeper, being happy is actually a sad, sad thing. And in a world where misery can come disguised as happiness, how can we really, truly, fully live after all?
Maybe the question isn’t about living at all.
Maybe life isn’t about loving after all.
Maybe sadness and pain stem from loss and maybe loss stems from sadness and pain. Either way, we see that intransience can actually dwindle and there is nothing more to this world than two doors of permanent fleeting and a fleeting permanence. Still, in the midst of it all comes two people, hearts aglow with love for one another, unmindful of which door to enter.
In the end, all that is left is Ebe’s bittersweet take on melancholy and Murakami’s Norwegian Wood.
After reading Norwegian Wood and watching the video for Kuwarto, I have claimed the existence of sadness’ functionality in each one of us, as if it were a body part, an organ. Almost similar to our inborn traits such as sex and aggression, I believe that sadness is one thing we all cannot live without because strictly speaking, it is sadness and the onslaught of pain that makes us truly alive.
Now, pain and sadness are two different things as they pertain to different aspects of our being. There occurs an interchangeability of the physical and spiritual such as when you shift gears in a car, and sadness and pain are felt simultaneously but separately. But of course, the delineation of the two proves to be very hard, so very hard indeed, that we choose to forego the distinction and settle for a chopsuey of emotions and sensations, associating one with the other, and in the process giving in to a complete likeness. This makes life easier, of course.
I find it inoperably funny and pathetic how such novels as the aforementioned eases me into tumbling backwards into all my past relationships with boys and girls and more boys. Suddenly, I think about all of them all at once and then one at a time, seeking out the best times, picking them out from the infinite worst. And then I compare. I shrink them down into tiny glass marbles, each of a different weight, color, and size. Then I lay them on a table side by side so as to brighten the contrast. Who was the best kisser? Who cracked the funniest jokes? Who came the closest to love? Many times I go over my comparisons and then think about all of them, boyfriends and girlfriends and summer-any-season flings, for a last time and bid them goodbye until another wistful novel grips me into a chokehold of memories, both dormant and living. In this way, I find it sort of trivial to evaluate life using past, failed relationships. Trivial, yes, but effective.
Ah, how sadness gets the best of us sometimes. No, not nostalgia. Just sadness.
And this kind of sadness does not open itself to pain. See what I mean about how the two can live disjointedly? But then, maybe not yet.
What welcomes pain is the present. Encounters of the now, the people and places of the time ticking in your wristwatch.
Shall we compare? But that is beyond the point. The pain does not come from regret, after all, for that is now a completely different story. Pain comes from realising two ownerships: the past and the present, and the limitation that you could only fully own one.
It is not a matter of choice, if that is what you are thinking, but more of a matter of belongingness and home. Following this is a sharp stinging into the middle of your chest, where you once felt your heart, and where you now feel a heavy nothingness. Here we are bordering between the physical and the spiritual, the soul and the body. How nice to live in both at once.
Yes, it is sadness that keeps us most alive. But if were so, I would rather just be a happy robot. But then looking deeper, being happy is actually a sad, sad thing. And in a world where misery can come disguised as happiness, how can we really, truly, fully live after all?
Maybe the question isn’t about living at all.
Maybe life isn’t about loving after all.
Maybe sadness and pain stem from loss and maybe loss stems from sadness and pain. Either way, we see that intransience can actually dwindle and there is nothing more to this world than two doors of permanent fleeting and a fleeting permanence. Still, in the midst of it all comes two people, hearts aglow with love for one another, unmindful of which door to enter.
In the end, all that is left is Ebe’s bittersweet take on melancholy and Murakami’s Norwegian Wood.
