Buffers, Les élus

The eternity of forms

Battling intense mood swings and depressive episodes is not easy — and it’s harder when we forget the little things that made us dream and look forward to a better tomorrow. Even worse, we tend to discard and leave behind the small habits that keep us connected to the “now” — which is the more important between the past and the future.

One of my small creations

Recently, I bought a new journal — engraved with a drawing of the Little Prince (my best friend) hanging by small ropes to a flock of birds, taking flight off his tiny planet and into the unknown. A line underneath the drawing reads, “L’essential est invisible pour les yeax.” The essential is invisible to the eyes.

It’s true. Once I started writing in that journal — after months and months of leaving this habit– I realized that I had the answer all along: I shouldn’t look outside of myself to battle my demons. But perhaps I should look inside, to the things that I already have and thought  I lost, and instead of battling demons, perhaps I should befriend them, even love them. They’ve lived with me for so long, I’m probably their only home. I wouldn’t throw them away.

I’m loyal to strange things.

Writing, and sketching — creating form, ink on paper. Therein lies the magic that perhaps will free me one day. In my first entry, I wrote, “When writing, a person is in the moment, like right now. If you’re focused on getting ink on paper, nothing becomes more important than ink on paper. And within the ink and the words, there’s a certain magic, an incantation and a spell. Am I going crazy? Or is this me finally becoming sane? Finding beauty in the mundane. Or more correctly finding miracles in small things.

Words have a god. And whoever masters words becomes close to this God. If you become a word, the word, you become god. This is the essence of spirituality: becoming infinite inside something. Consigning your soul — this limitless presence– to a single point in space. Points are timeless, or rather not bound by time.”

Self portrait

So are words. And so will you, if you focus so much on the task of producing a word on paper that you disappear in it. Watch the pen move, the ink dispensed, sink into the pores of the paper, grow and stem out into a form that gives meaning, makes sense. Suddenly, the ink takes on new meanings. It becomes alive in the shape that it has created. Iqraa, read it back, breathe in, breathe out, in, out and everything changes. This is the present. Welcome to it.

Words can change the world.

How can this idea not be healing?

Similarly, I tried to re-explore sketching. A beautifully talented Tweep gave me a drawing book, as gift, a week earlier, and I haven’t stopped drawing ever since. And last night, I wasn’t too afraid — as I always were before– to share that bit of myself. So I posted some of these online, and I even changed my Twitter avatar to a self-portrait that I have drawn myself.

Will all this cure my dark episodes? It might. And if not, then it will remain there as testimony to how I tried.

“Nous écrivons des choses eternelles.”

Listening to: Nothing
Mood: Indescribable, hovering in a grey area between happiness and sadness.
Wants from the Universe: Love, love, love and more love. For people, and for things. Mostly, for myself. Because I need that.

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Buffers, Les élus

Creators. Destroyers. Two sides of the same coin.

Some people seem to be born natural motivators; they’re go-getters themselves, they’re full of life, and their imagination is always strong and ripe. They’re miracle-makers. They move the wheels. They’re lucky, and they often make things happen. They’re touched by magic, and everything they lay a finger on turns to gold.

Paradoxically, these people carry within them as much power for creation as they do for destruction. That’s why, sometimes, those who inspire us are the very people that can take us down. That’s why in some human relationships, between men and women, father and son, mother and daughter, the same people who enchant us and who are capable of making us violently happy have a strange power on us and can –with the same intensity– inflict tremendous pain and hurt.

It seems that extreme light can only be balanced by extreme darkness. And both have to exist together.

And so in meeting those who awe and infatuate us, those who make us soar and dream, we should tread softly towards them.

They’re our angels and demons.

And there’s nothing predictable about where the meeting could lead. Like the paradox of their being, the unpredictability is both risky and beautiful.