The Horror...

The love of life is something I am very familiar with. The pain of it more so. The problem is, it seems, that I keep wondering when the pain will come back even though I'm in the middle of something perfect. In the story "The Heart of Darkness," the protaganist seeks out a missing coleague who dissaprears into the African indigenous lands. When he finally comes upon his fellow reporter, he finds the man to be disgusting: and evil warlord who puts the heads of those who displease him on pikes outside his fortress. Our protaganist ends up being the only person with this dark-hearted man on his deathbed, and the last words the man utters, in a fit of fear, are "Oh, The Horror! The Horror!" I remembered this because its something that hides in all of us in the shadows. Im constantly worried that my little demon will become who I am, who I become. Its something a lot of people deal with, and suprisingly many think they're all alone. I'm here to tell you at least one other person struggles with it. I do constantly. Serena is visiting me this winter. For 12 days. The closer those days get, the more I begin to freak out. I constantly worry that something, anything, will go wrong. I can't let that feeling go... and I should. I'm sorry this is a bit of a venting post, but it needed to be said. Its not like any of my readers actually exist. Oh well... If you do exist, let me know! I'm working on a donate button, because, well, I need it. It'll be up soon. :)

The point of this post. I don't know. You all may not know me very well yet, but this is something that scares me. My life is huge now, in a daunting way. Too much to do, to aim for, too much to deal with. I never know where the next challenge will come from, and they aren't challenges I want. I want a simpler set, something dangerous and physical. I know that sounds pretty base, but I don't mean I want a fight. I want to run, to climb, to move. I haven't danced in almost a year now, and I get precious little time to do anything else either. My writing is to pot: I havent written in almost two months. I am dying in the water, and I have college to go. I need a year, honestly. I guess... I guess I need a moment, just one, that I can just let go of. So I'm going to take it, soon. I don't mean leave, hell, not even dissapear for two hours. I just mean, from this moment on, I'll look for every chance to take joy in my actions. Perhaps, just maybe, possibly, I've forgotten to do that. Thats really the point. Thank you all, in the depths of your lack of actually existing, for listening. Next post is going to be back to normal, y'all, and I'm sorry for changing on you for so long. Like I said last time, Sohneya is coming back. And he's closer than ever.

Ugh

This is a new start I hope, but I lost my muse. It ran away. It hasn't whispered in my ear for almost a month now, and I'm getting worried. Writing is what I do best, writing is my release and my own personal room. When I write I don't worry about anything else, just the words just the meaning just the truth or what I say is the truth. Thats writing for me. Its  a thing that makes me cry. I have one other thing that does that for me: moving. Freedom of movement, perfecting my drive. Be it ballet or running or climbing, I can run. I can dance, or I can run, but I can't stop moving. Its the only other outlet I have. Everyone, I do mean everyone, has one. Some of us don't ever find it, but it's there, hiding and lurking deep within us.

       Maybe someone out there has never even thought of picking up a flute, but if they had they would have found it strangely inviting. They'd be told "its going to be hard work!" but they didn't care. They kept practicing and fighting for it and they found the better they got the better it was. Maybe one day they sit down and play it, for no reason, and someone hears them, and the melody moves them. They can't help but bounce on their feet, and soon they can't help but dance, swaying if nothing else. They remember when they were a little kid and they, just maybe, decide to go and try out for dance classes. They step out on the stage for the first time, just as a small part, maybe Father number 3. But they dance when they can, and outshine every other extra on that stage. They keep it up, watching everyone else come and go, flit in and out. Then, at last, they get the lead role, a grand part. They step out on stage, and the music speaks to them. Maybe it whispers in their ear "wait for it, wait just a moment..." and at last they hear a shift, imperceptible to the audiance, in beat, that tells them its time to move. They move thier leg out, a slow motion, but they smile, bright and big, but its not fake, its perfect and pure. They know, is why, that soon they won't hold back. At last, another shift, and they burst open, covering the stage in leaps and bounds, leaping back and forth, spinning and twirling, no longer a human, but an instrument, a peice of visual music flying over the stage, never quite touching it. They float above it until the last beat, slowly echoing across the pitch black that they know is filled with an audiance. They know, because they hear them clapping. The walk of stage, and they don't know where the time went, two hours of moving that never seemed to take any time.
         maybe someone in the audiance, a kid coming with a class, who for a moment quit laughing and got caught in the beauty. He goes home, and tries to draw it. The image is stuck in his head for a good long while, pushing around the other thoughts, never more than a moment from the forefront. The child keeps drawing, a young man now, he finishes the last stroke on a beautiful picture, deeply colored and shaded just right, rich and vibrant. For a moment, he goes back to that fateful day, the dancer floating above the stage. His peice, his final in art school, is put on display. Someone sees it, moved by the colors, and goes out to find out how to look like that. They dance. Step out on stage, move yet again. This time, more people are watching. Someone else sees it, and grows into an artist, another to a dancer, and many more to musicians. Thats the point of all of this. To make the world a place where, eventually, we all know what we are meant to do, what moves us. For me, its music and motion. I dance like I write, long and flowing but quick when I must be. I'm not saying I am the best, far from it. At either. But I have something only a (relative) handful of other people have: pure, unadulterated passion. Thats why my muse has scared me, and why she has finally returned. Whats yours? If you haven't found it, go try to! No life is worth living if something, anything, doesn't move you. What is it that, if nothing else, you know you will keep doing. Is it speaking, debate? Do you love to create an amazing peice of art? What about dance, does it speak to you? You'll know it when you find it: if its hard you keep going, if its getting good you can't stop. Its something you can't stop, something that makes you leave your body, forget your eyes, and become pure. I don't remember a lot of hours in my life. I was dancing, or writing. The four I can't ever remember, for the life of me, are the ones where I was that dancer, on stage, in my own part. I never, ever, expected that I would get it, nor that I would love it like that. But I stepped on stage, and I never stopped moving. Once. I had a part where I sat in a chair for about fifteen minutes. You know what I did? I don't know. All I know is that I did a good job, at least I was told that. I only know that I don't remember sitting down. I remember living the movements of the other dancers, feeling myself play out the part of everyone else. I never knew once I had stopped until I found myself bowing. That's what it'll be like for you, if you just look. Find it. Try things. Don't force them, but try them.

Sohneya is back, everyone. Thank you for your patience, if you are there. If not, ah well. Welcome me back when you get here. Thank you.