Strange Island

by herespang

Lately, it has been painstakingly difficult to think of anything conclusive that’s worthwhile of being translated into text. You cannot begin to ponder just how some are able to manage a clear state of mind amongst the chores of chaos that is the routines of day-to-day life. There are always tasks that fail to inspire any flints of passion. Unfortunately, for some, these duties occupy the main courses of their days. And in a headstrong, rush-service kind of fashion, they force their way through the more drudging duties at hand, only to find themselves lost for thoughts in their hard-earned leisure at dusk.

None of the more weary words, misery can be, surprisingly, addicting. Certain kinds of artistic intents often render one unconsciously drawn or even married to his/her more lamentable selves—as if, without intolerable suffering (either sought out or received by chance), there wouldn’t be enough fuel to create anything profound or beautiful. Most evolved minds may find one or two, if not many, relatable experiences as such.

You bought a Saint figurine or two, and felt—saved, or simply different. Not different in any kind of repulsive, artificially transformative way—as all significant changes occur in time and not in any cataclysmic manner—it is only that through historical, time-invested characters, you were able to from them, draw out some affirmation on the virtues that you frequently doubted to be in your possessions. Placebo effect? Maybe, maybe not. When it comes to personal experiences, there’s nothing wrong with leaving things uncategorized, mystified: at least that’s your way of making it fun. The main point here is: you established a few new habits, for better or worse (of course for the better!).

Concurrent with the new rounds, a few recent encounters have further solidified your conviction on the karmic rules that seem to quietly dictate human affairs (at least yours). Cause and effect; send and receive; these themes reoccur over and over again, disguised under different colors each time, in the grain of sand that is your life. For the longest time, you radically rejected the compositions of conventional love. You held a firm, unwavering attitude towards what it meant to give true affection—in your own book of definitions. You were bent on realizing the now obviously egotistical ideal that there will be someone who will understand and accept your disposition:  the many-a-times inconsistent and seemingly distant kind of loving.

Somehow, Fate, through your own failures and serendipitous outsider rescues, has urged you to learn to love from outside of yourself. It’s incredible, heartwarming, yet frighteningly confusing. You have finally come to reject the idea of potential soulmates in romance—not out of cynicism, but rather out of an overwhelming discovery: we, some of us, fall in and out of love each and every day; over and over again with the same individuals, or with those suddenly appearing strangers who, one after another, inexplicably cause us to doubt or even outgrow all our former, heavyweight loves.

Along with the sugar cube, melts away your old sorrows. But the Heart, the heart is a can of fire; open it and out pours all the unpredictable flame that kindle a world of unguided desires.