Sometimes even we responsible adults like to have a few drinks with friends of a Saturday night. On those occasions, we sometimes write crappy prose that reminds us when we used to write in middle school. But you know what? Fuck it. It was the best damn thing I could come up with at the time, and it’s more honest than most of what I read.
So here it is. Judge away. These made someone very close to me smile
Ultimately, we’re star-stuff…atoms. Even our ability to try and decipher what that means to us as an individual is at the same time a shout of dominance over a meaningless cosmos and a forgettable reminder that, at the end of it, my brain, my feelings for you…they’re all just chemicals, themselves the result of subatomic particles behaving in some meaningless way. But they’re beautiful to me when the come together to be you. You deserve more worth than the universe can give you. I’d like to try.
The most serene times for me are when I’ve forgotten that things need to be figured out. When piecing together the world in the interest chasing happiness was forgotten while I just…looked, without analysis…
…whether it was the clutter of the cosmos or of my living room…
…I’m not sure pure flashes of unexamined beauty are terribly real. In the instant that I’m aware of how beautiful the moment is, immediately comes the desire to understand it. This is a noble enterprise, to be sure, but it is a also a consumer of resources such as my time and the processing power of my mind, both of which are in finite supply and both of which are averse to being shared.
I exist within a brain that wishes for the simple, blissful feelings of seeing beauty and leaving it at that. That same brain has made it very clear that it will not uncouple an immersion in the symmetry and grandeour of the universe from the ability to be satisfied without asking questions. And so anything beautiful leaves me with only the option to go back out and to seek the less pure luster of what meaning can be derived from whatever answers my brain can produce. It won’t be perfect, but it’s enough. It’s all my mind allows me to be, and I’m grateful that it’s good. The perfect should never become the enemy of what’s good.
And, to be honest, the answers I’ve come up with have been very few in the grand scheme of things. They are a tiny cavern carved beneath an ocean of questions above me that I have about life, the universe, and everything. But I have wrestled an answer or two away from the uncertainties of the murk, that I keep tucked away in a warm corner because they are precious to me. Among those answers are things like my parents, Christina, my brother, Greta…
And I realize that as the concept of experiencing beauty without being yanked away to examine it is a luxury not afforded to the inquisitive mind, so are the answers and the entertaining chaos of curiosity a beauty denied to complacency. We can never have both, and we should never curse ourselves for what we are. We are the questioners.
I’m glad I can never stop thinking when I’m around you. I enjoy how something as simple as holding your hand and enjoying your affection always leads me to new questions that we can traverse together.
Eat your heart out 6th grade Shakespeare. Say what you want (and don’t hold back), but remember that most people can’t even text their full name when tipsy. Being honest, I think, doesn’t mean only telling religious people you think their arguments are trash. It also means telling those around you how you really feel (and it even means sharing something you suck at). Kinda sad when we need a lack of sobriety to be honest in risky ways.
So, who wants me to sign their yearbook?