The Sea of Our Own Sorrow
I write to not lose my life. My memory is a dogged thing, shifting between pure clarity to inept delirium. I maintained delusions of superior recall for much of my life, to my own folly. I am inherently human and have lost much of my past either to necessity or unclear methodology. The gaps in my life are glaring, and I despise this loss of the development of my own character, feeling as if I have offered up a betrayal to my own psyche.
Why do we lose so much of our inner selves, with the many memories in their beauty or ugliness washing away like tears in the rain? I beat my fists against myself, angered by own ineptitude. The past can oft be horrid, with the morality of individuals defined by moments of chaotic meaningless, serving at first glance only to scar.
But by keeping those memories, while we might not avoid the ugliness of the past, we are better able to learn and gauge both ourselves and our surroundings in retrospect. The lens of time is one of undeniable clarifying quality, and through writing we achieve an epoch of human capability to know oneself, in that we might reflect on our words, feelings, and experiences of the past in the light of a new dawn.
Or perhaps more apt than the setting sun, we find ourselves bathed in the light and warmth of a new day, the sunrise washing away the confusion and delirium of the past.
I write now to both cleanse myself of preconceived notions, as well as define and refine my own character from the stance of my own understanding. I try now to resurrect my past self, through my attempt at exploring both the pain and pleasure of this forgotten world. I do this now with blurry eyes, with the wish that I might craft a brighter future for myself, and even those around me.
The grand human vision is defined by the ways in which we beings, individually, seek to ascertain our overarching purpose in life. The search for purpose is fraught with the possibility that we might never find a true answer if an answer exists at all. Our lives are what we make of them, and I believe by taking control of our past we are served a better foundation from which to spring for the future.
This future past connection, this ideological and inherent dyad is in my mind the key to the locks we place on our psyche. We all wish to unlock ourselves, but how can we ever hope to know our inner beauty, our inner strength if we neglect to see all, to see every part of the inner self. I am a realist with idealist tendencies, and at times that line is blurred.
I maintain an outlook on the human condition, an inherent belief that we, both as a species and on our individual levels, are embarking into the unknown, an unmarked path in human history that the societies of old have never even glanced. I maintain that this great unknown is one of positive nature, a future defined only by its endless, tantalizing prospects of prosperity and inner peace amongst all of us.
It is an intoxicating prospect, and I have found in life to think otherwise is key only to a life sadly lived. What is the point of continued existence if it be only lived with doubt of happiness or philosophical purpose. I am but one man of humanistic ambition but unknown means of achieving my inherent wish to help those in this world around me.
I will be forgotten all too quickly, no matter the level of impact I manage. Time is relative, and the greatest figures of human history are heralded only in human terms. In our universe, of minute difference is there between the common man and the great men of human development, be they the unmatched conquerors or the great thinkers and visionaries. In a life of insignificance, we must find significance in our actions.
Some find themselves overwhelmed by the little difference between feeding their pet and the massacre of a society of old in the grand cosmic order, but I find beauty in this prospect. For in a world where nothing matters, everything we do matters. In the universal hierarchy, we are all equals. This life is the only guarantee to us.
If we cannot find reason or meaning in ourselves, we must make it. One of the key steps to this actualization of the self is the pursuit of the past, so that we might alter our present in line with what is learned. I have lived a happy life, one full of the many great beauties and pains that life offers to us, be they the simplicities or the intricate complexities. Throughout the years I have lived, few elements are of such complex nature as my relationship with my grandfather.
Or perhaps to be more particular, my relationship with the way in which I lost him. We always maintain that those that die old lived full lives, be it truth or delusion. We say they were ready to move on, that by having avoided the great tragedy of dying young their passing is a happy step in the grand human experience.
We hold this belief close to our hearts, comforted by the idea that death can be anything but heartbreaking. I truly wish I could adhere to this belief system, but I cannot make peace with death. I cannot make peace with his death. I hope that by reflecting on the relationship we shared that I might finally be able to move on.
Might see meaning in the end, just as I see meaning in the journey. But for all the optimism I direct at my life apart from this, I seemingly have none left to use towards the topic of what might be achieved through this memoir. And yet I try all the same, because to not try is to give in. It is human nature to aspire for something greater, for a better tomorrow.
I would argue it goes further, that this human hope is the driving force behind our society, both as a whole and individually. That human ambition is not a choice, but a necessity. For in a life in which we content ourselves with the ground we stand, what is the point. We are dreamers, driven by the collective belief in a better future.
In my hearts mind, I maintain the hope that I might better understand how to manage the complexity of familial love shared with one individual over such a long time through the process of facing the pain of a past suppressed either through collective desire or uniform need.
I write to not lose myself, but perhaps it goes further. Perhaps in this beautiful tragedy we call life, I write to not lose those I love. To not lose my Poppie. For in the aftermath of death, we betray not only ourselves by shunning the past we shared with the lost, but the departed as well. I want to recapture something lost, as well as something new. I want to face that unknown enemy, emboldened by the belief that I might find new understanding and meaning in the past.
I aspire to strike down that great dragon cancer, imposing upon the human populace as if Smaug guarding his untold treasures. I seek to lay waste to this grand being, this terrible element of the greater world, so that I might plunder the depths of my own mind, might receive the treasures buried so deeply within my scarred soul.
I have stood still far too long, never daring to step either forward or backward. I content myself no longer with being trapped in this perennial standstill, but with stepping into that great unknown that lies beyond.
