Someone once said that if the presence of reality became too extraordinary, our consciousness would seek refuge in imagination.
That used to be a straightforward thing for me to do, and I’d always feel much better about the world, the people around me and even myself. It’s just that as I grow older, I find it harder to deal with pressure. Shit is getting real, and I get terrified. There used to be many more ways to escape and more options as well, and I’m not too sure what happened. It’s unbelievable how many loose ends my life has, and I don’t know how to tie them together anymore. I thought I would see a new light in this new beginning, but right now, I can’t even ignite a match without breaking it.
In my own private life, the magic of fiction and writing has helped me shoulder my responsibilities. It gives my mind a good balance, a necessary balance – one that nobody around me understands, so I cannot share it. Just because they are experts in coping, in reality, doesn’t mean I’m less strong.
Balance is crucial. Standing on one foot teaches your body physical balance. Reading, writing, meditating give your mind a mental balance. Some people need it more than others. If they are not granted the space and time, they might fall apart. And even if you witness the breakdown, you will lack the knowledge to understand because they felt too ashamed or too stupid to tell you.
I never thought that life’s pattern would contribute to a good story, but at least it’s inspirational, and you can tweak around with factual truth and even lie, as long as an emotional truth is evident. I never liked being emotional. It’s like water – ever-changing. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t want to go into the waters of Phi Phi Island. I want to be like a rock – hard and cold – be stepped on and not give a shit because I am tough. But someone has set the wood in my mind on fire, and it’s burning away. And I’m trying to make the most out of the fire. Looking for wood (to burn) is hard. Unfortunately, I have to do it to stay warm. If you’re not alone, you have commitments, and sometimes they can be detrimental to the mind. An introvert’s heart might have a capacity for lots of things, whereas his mind doesn’t. And while trying to please everyone he cares about; they don’t know how he is tying himself in knots. There you go, some psychodynamics here. At least Freud would say so. Nobody wants to know about your inner conflicts and repressed emotions! So you wait for someone like Freud to knock on the door of your consciousness and listen to you weighing up your emotions.
Going back to that burning wood – it’s my imagination, and I would like it to burn a little longer, please.
Someone once said that life consisted of a series of escapes, and we are here for the little details. I like that. That’s because I pay attention to little details more than anything. All things trivial are precious to me because all the big things are already being cared about. And again, nobody understands…
A piece of writing is made of little details. You learn to appreciate them as you read without realizing it. You relate. You empathize.
Suppose you let imagination in; you’ll start feeling more balanced in your head. Funny, I named this blog “Scatterbrained” before I even started writing. The more I focus on my imagination (– the only thing I really know), the more balanced I’ll be. Perhaps I’m not that scatterbrained.