[that sounds like a band. or a (kinda fitting) title for my blog. since that’s usually what time it is when i post anything worth reading. if I ever decide to change my title/tagline…which, let’s be honest, I kind of really am considering. suggestions/thoughts/Anna-don’t-do-it-you’re-a-loser? okay moving on… I present to you the product of several evenings spent in imagination rather than homework. oops.]
The following is an overflowing, a stream-of-conscience ramble, a though indulged-in, stemming from a conversation held at midnight in the dark warmth of a tired dorm room and the comfort of people who, somehow, miraculously, understand. Perhaps some of you will understand too. Perhaps some of you want to know it’s not only you in the wordless dark. Perhaps none of you will connect to anything written here. Perhaps that doesn’t matter at all.
Most of the imagery is stolen. Much of what is here is not my own. And I suppose, given all things, that is fitting. But that is imagery only. The net, the veil, the darkness. The feelings and emotion and haunting mystery-in-the-dark are mine. As they belong to many others as well, I know. I have only borrowed the images from others in order to set the emotions down. I hope these others will forgive me. I do not want to copy or steal. I only want to be heard. As my own voice is mute, I must lean on the voices of those apart from myself.
Words, words, words. And I can’t capture them. There are too many distractions, too much noise, too much, too much, too much. Too many words. They spin just out of my reach, dancing, tantalizing, teasing, shimmering, beautiful, impossible. Impossible to touch. I reach out and out, straining, yearning, just for the slightest trace of them. The tips of my fingers, sometimes, brush an edge, a glimmer. But never more than that, and not for more than a moment. I reach wide, cast the net of my arms out broad for them, but they fall through the cracks. As I have. They slip by, and disappear, and fade, and they are gone. And I have nothing left but darkness.
I cling to their remembrance. I cling to the lightness of words, as they are captured by others and woven into tapestries of Truth that I could never hope to form. I watch the nets of others, tight and strong and deep, fill with the radiance and create worlds and stars and ages of life and wonder and pain and treachery and glory and abuse and sadness and joy. I watch and I ache and I cling to that hurt because it, at least, is real. The closer I pull that beauty of others to me the more I hate it. The more I cannot, for my life, break away from it.
There is aching inside. I am sad, and I can’t explain why, but it’s a good sadness, I think. A yearning, longing, forever-aching sadness. A sadness that can’t ever be filled or made away. You broke the veil, didn’t you, and passed through? My own veil is heavy as black velvet. Woven, maybe, of the darkness the faded words have left behind. But there is light behind it – I know, for I have seen. The smallest glimpse of what could be and what is and what shall be, but what I cannot hope to gain. The smallest glimpse of Truth. It shines from behind the veil, and I see it, and it is beautiful. But it is not Real. And they tell me it cannot ever be so. And they tell me I am wrong to imagine it there. And they tell me to let go the memory. And they tell me I am mistaken, or silly, or insane. And they tell me I am just a child. And they tell me I know nothing. My thoughts are nothing.
I am crying, and for once I know why. I am crying because I am empty, and I know what it is that can fill me, fill me to overflowing, but I have no way of reaching it. I know that light beyond the veil is pure and good and True, forever True, but it does not come near enough for me to touch it. It hovers, like the words, just out of my reach. Barely in sight, enough to tempt and gloat and waver brilliant and untouchable before me. Untouchable. Untouchable.
I cannot lift the veil and pass through. That is not my lot. I cannot take the words and create, sub-create, build something of Truth with them. That is not my task. I cannot pinpoint a vision of my own, I cannot name the thing that lies on my heart. For there is a thing, oh! there is, and it aches! But I cannot name it because words are not mine to build with, and thoughts are not mine to control, and images are not mine to command. I can see the visions of others – the things that lie on their hearts and torment them with an ache like mine. I can see them, as they describe them. But my own image is empty, or stolen. I do not have the words with which to paint it. I cannot make it True. I cannot even make it Real. It is in my heart, yes, but there are no words! There are none.
I yearn, with every piece of my heart, to add something to the light beyond the veil. To the words. To the creation of beauty and Truth. I yearn.
Yearn. It’s not even the right word. It’s more than that. More than longing, more than an ache, more than burning, heavy desire. It’s something there is no word for in my language. It is a word with no meaning that I can understand. It is Portuguese saudade, profound longing for something absent, something unknown, that may never return. It is Welsh hiraeth, homesickness and grief for a place lost, an ache for something gone. It is Russian toska. Anguish without a cause, a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for. It’s outside of language, beyond it, above it. I feel it and I cannot name it and it is frightening in its mystery and it seers with its power and I don’t know what to do with it or where to go with it or how to hold it all inside me. Because I am not big enough to contain it all. I cannot hold within my one heart the entirety of language and love and Truth and Reality and That-which-is and That-which-is-not. I can’t contain within me something that is so big and so right, but so impossible and so overwhelming and so…much. So much. My lips taste of salt and regret and desperation for…I don’t know.
And how does a God fit into this ache? Because such a One does, such a One must, it cannot exist otherwise. The Other World. Is this it? Is this where all, everything, all the words and the light and the yearning, connect? Is this where I can be filled?
I don’t know.
But the thought of it sets more tears falling. The thought of it renews the stabbing ache inside that will not go away no matter what the salve I apply. The thought of it is full of hope and possibility and, yes, grief as poignant as the dawn that breaks and the joy that is too much.
What am I doing?
And why, why, why, the ever-pounding question. Why do the words run from me? Why am I left with only darkness? Why does even that slip through my fingers when I try to grasp it? Why am I mute? Why does the veil not lift more than a sliver? Why is the light beyond impossible? Why is my language not enough? Why is Truth not Real? Why is Reality not True? Why is the image in my heart so heavy, yet so unformed? Why is there no word for what I feel?
Why overthrow me with such a longing and then make it impossible for me to satisfy? Why are Reality and Truth not the same? Why do I struggle to know which is which, or if they even are at all? Why are they not the same?
Do I ever get answers? Do I ever get to give anything back? Give anything back to the darkness, when the words are gone? Do I ever get to give something of my own, yet that is not of me at all, back?
Am I to be left here in the darkness without words, mute, struggling to keep myself from breaking with the hugeness of that which is inside me, which I cannot contain, which I cannot even name? Is the darkness all I get? Is the darkness all I ever will have? Is that all there is?