The Curious Adventures of Gordan's Thoughts

It

It can be the most beautiful spectrum of life, the most colourful aspect of every silhouette.

It can be the most devastating pain, the most stabbing of truths unraveled at the speed of light.

It can be the most thrilling ride, filled with highs and lows, ups and downs, resets and continuation.

It can be the most exhilarating of encounters, an array of mutually experienced chemical changes.

It can be the steadiest and slowest of growths, a conservative one that serves to conserve, to preserve the beauty that is already in existence.

It can be the most rapid of changes, a liberation of sorts, roaming freely around each other, dancing daffodils in the wind.

It can be the most excruciating of moments, an essence of a droplet magnified into a concoction of patterns, of repetition, of spirals and depth.

It can be the most fleeting of frivolous fun, a joyous joviality jeering in the most “banterous” of manners.

It can be each and every reflection of who you were, are, and have yet to be.

It can be honest.

It can be deceptive.

It can be perceptive.

It can be receptive.

But if it is not reciprocated, it is non-existent.

That, is what sets it apart from love — Love can exist without reciprocation.

“It”, however, cannot.

“It”…

 

 

…is friendship.

MG

(Creative writing: May 2009 – when it all began)

Perhaps there was nothing wrong with her to begin with, and she was just as normal as everyone else. But maybe it was her honesty that landed her where she was now—a rut. All that she once represented, all that she once was, the person she used to be, all left behind with the rest of her past. Her memories are what they are—memories. None of it the reality of now, rather a fragment of the past she carries around with caution.

No one can explain her, no one understands her. No one can love her to the capacity she does. She’s alone, but not. Thrown into this place she couldn’t comprehend, this place she could never absorb, she sits in wonder. She watches as the cars go by, as people fall into the deep abyss of love. She watches as people don’t realize they’re being watched.

Life, the one big controversy waiting to erupt. Or maybe, just maybe, it already has. Maybe this rut she’s in is the result of being swept away by lava carrying to this state of confusion.

She watches everyone around her—no one is normal. No one conforms. No one can fully blend in with the scene. So what was she doing here on her own? Was there even an “answer” to such a question?

Tears started forming in her eyes as she unraveled the memories of her past. She wanted things to go back to the way they were. She would give up all emotions, even happiness, just so that she would never feel pain again. A long time ago, she was never happy; but a long time ago, she was whole and complete. A long time ago, she was never broken.

She had to fight back the liquidized demons they called “emotions” that were beginning to fall from her face. No, she couldn’t be weak. She couldn’t let society win. But society itself had an advantage over her. It was closing in tightly around her, entrapping her, blocking her from herself.

Outside this cage was a mirror.

Inside this mirror stood a girl with a distorted smile. She was pretty, and she was smiling. The eyes in the mirror told a story, a happy story. But as she studied this intriguing person, she realized that her hands were tied. She had no means of breaking free, but she was happy. The person in the mirror sighed. A tear drop trickled down her cheek, fell to the ground, but didn’t break. A single teardrop, so small and fragile, yet so strong it did not shatter as it hit the floor.

This girl looked away. She couldn’t bear the image of a teardrop. Looking down, she found a pool of clear water on her shoulder. She looked away. These teardrops were her memories melting, liquidizing. She couldn’t fight it anymore. She looked back at the mirror once more, at the girl who smiled and hid her tears. The girl whose hands were bound, yet didn’t struggle to break free. The girl, who could be happy.

She blinked, and turned around.

On and on she ran, looking away from anything which fueled her memories, her emotions.

Those memories, no matter how close they were to her heart…were unfinished.

MG

There’s always that stage in life
when and where life, itself, is a stage.

Darling, do we live life on a stage?
Do we parade around the masquerades?
Do we perform as if we are there to show
The world of us, our “selves”, and all that we know?

Or do we live as if life is a stage?
In between heaven and hell, love and hate?
Existence is merely a few seconds in history
A few shreds of leaves written down in a biography.

What is our purpose, my dear,
Why are we here?
Is it of importance, or is time an illusion?
Are we happy, are we sure?
Well here’s some challenge to endure.
Are we miserable, or are we just bored?
Well here’s some advice, we’re all equally flawed.

We’re the same on the inside
Wearing different masks
Different human skeletons
Completing different tasks
The only walls between us
Would be the human ego
So how long can one ride along with this mainstream flow?

You want to blend in
But you were made to shine
You want to stand out
Yet you refuse to give it time
To put in the work
To plant the seeds
To grow the trees you breed

So take it slow, my dear
No fear
Life is but a stage
A stage on which you could choose to stand
Or a stage
You could simply
embrace.

MG

(Creative writing: 2016)

“If you’re sick of everyone falling for you, stop being so bloody perfect then,” she’d screamed at me, a sheer projection of inadequacy.

*      *     *     *    *

I know that feeling, I was young once, and I remember that insecurity. I also remember the effort it took to outgrow those feelings of “never being enough”, and while part of it was conscious effort to always improve every aspect that was within my control, the other part of it was simply to give it time…to give myself time.

I’d wanted to say that. I knew it was the right thing to say. But the right thing to say would’ve resulted in me having to explain myself, and then talk about my life story or how I came to that realization. It would be insulting, if anything, considering I’ve been writing about my journey for years. You don’t read it, then you ask me questions I’ve already answered countless times, in multiple ways.

Instead, you come at me with these projections and I’m shielded by my own experiences…ones I was never shy about, ones I’ve blasted expressively for years.

Calling me perfect, as if that’s not offensive. As if I’d had everything handed to me and never had to work a day in my life. As if…

Sure, you have the right to feel what you want to feel. You have to express whatever you want.

I also have the right to simply say “Ok, glad you got that out your system now. Was I supposed to do something about it?”

No, darling. I’m not.

It’s that same damn thing you do, every single time you want me to tell you how I feel, knowing that you’re not going to do anything about it. Well, I’m not either. And if the best action is inaction to let things fall into place, then so be it. But I’m not playing your games and I’m not running circles chasing typhoons.

And no, I’m not walking away. What from, anyway? A shadow? A fragment of a memory? An unfinished reality that was never made?

No, darling. Running is your thing, and fighting is mine.

It’s what we do. I’ve accepted that, over time. It’s taken long enough.

I still miss you, but I can’t hold onto what never existed, darling. Much as you wanted to exist, you chose not to, and I suppose that’s what hurts the most…is that at the end of the day, much as you wanted to choose me…you couldn’t. You chose…you

That’s okay, though. I’ve learned to live without you; it’s you who has to live with you.

And for your sake, I sincerely hope you find yourself to be as enjoyable as I found you…If anything…I hope you find you.

I hope you let yourself be found.

Again.

I love you, always.

MG

One day, our paths will cross again
One day, our worlds will merge
Day after day
Readying the way
Until the stars emerge

From behind the clouds
That sheltered you in the crowd
You hid from the spotlight —
sunlight and moonlight

But our journey is the same
Our destination is nigh
I took a train
And you, the night flight

We took a different route
Leading to the same airport
A transition point is where we met
Yet “Hello” and “goodbye” was all you sought

I remember you, my love
But the memories weren’t enough
I had to pave a way to ready
Myself for thee

So one day, my dearest,
We shall meet again
In the forest or a desert
City streets or beach
Mountain peaks, ocean deeps
Rooftops atop old bookshops

One day, you and I will meet again
But maybe not today.

 

And when we meet again my dear
She will be nothing like you…

 

I fear.

 

MG

Love…

If chasing sunshine has taught me one thing, it’s that opening your curtains means you can just let it come.
(Generally, open curtains means a tidy room first…)

*     *    *    *    *

My experience of love is one that can be expressed on so many different levels.

There is the love of the flesh, the appreciation of the physical world around us. A love of a moment, an enjoyment of a platform created by our material world. It is a fickle love, like the flicker of a sun as it bounces off a mirror, a glimpse of your smile as you try to hide behind your smirk. That blue flash of flame just before it turns orange. It is love.

There is a love of the heart, the emotional resonance of love’s existence. A love of a person, to dwell in the company of a friend, a relative, a lover, even a stranger who shares the experience of “youness” in that moment. It is a lingering love that stays, like the love of a friend who makes you laugh, the love of a relative who makes you comfortable, the love of a lover whose presence warms you. It is love.

There is a love of the mind, the mental and sentimental spark of both brain and body. A love of a conversation, a concept, an idea. It is a love that revels in whoever or whatever embodies that expression. It is a temperamental love, impulsive and vibrating at a whole different frequency. It is an intangible love, its permanence  encompassed by us. Much like the unformed winds that can rustle up leaves or up-root a tree, it is a love that is made whole in itself.

Finally, there is a love of the soul, the universe that is both within and around us. The universe of which we are both creators as well as inhabitants. Our soul is the expression of the metaphysical world reflected by our physical one. It is a love in itself, a love that consumes itself while it reflects. It is like the sun, burning at high frequencies and eating itself while regenerating the light to reflect onto the moon. It is a love that is self-reliant, self-sufficient, yet self-destructive. It is a love that provides to all and gains only from self-regeneration. It is a love that regenerates, it does not disintegrate.

Love.

I love you, so very much right now, and I’m sure you feel it, too.

MG

I was stuck in a room with the two of them, both of whom felt the other to be intolerable. I was summonsed to arbitrate the situation, a mediation of sorts. Why? Well…I was about to find out.

When I’d first entered the room, I saw him sitting there with a sideways glare, arms folded across the chest in his tight black t-shirt, leg crossed over the other as his foot rested on his knee.

She, she was no better. She had her arms folded across her chest, too, but take away the glare and replace it with a whole bunch of huffs and hisses, fidgeting with the cuffs on her white jacket.

So this was my situation. They couldn’t agree. Again.

It wasn’t my first time dealing with this pair, either. And for matters of respecting their confidentiality, we shall give them nicknames. He will be called the Head, and She will be called the Heart.

My last few encounters with these two weren’t particularly pleasant; don’t get me wrong, we did achieve wonderful results. But my, how these two fought…so worth it. So entertaining, too, in retrospect. See, in my experience with these two, Heart always knew what she wanted. She was full of desire, of want, of love and compassion. She was kind, but she was strong as a boulder that would not change, only…fade…

Head, on the other hand, had this tendency to be right every single time. He was logical, calculated, and understanding. The empathy he lacked was replaced with honesty; brutal at times, but he didn’t play games.

When Head took the lead on the argument, the outcome would generally be of mutual benefit. Head had an objective outlook on life and was able to take himself out of the picture when analyzing a situation.

Heart, however, would always lead with her emotions. She cared about how people felt in a situation, and she also cared about herself. Heart was less likely to take herself out of the picture, and for that reason, allowed Head to take the lead when it came to situations involving others…

For years, Head was the one who made a regular appearance. He was the one trained to talk to people. Head had kept Heart hidden to protect her for so long that she didn’t quite know how to get what she wanted.

For that reason, I was asked to be present today. I had to solve their dilemma…for the first time, Heart wanted something that only Head knew how to get, and Head’s advice went against Heart’s desire.

Oh crikey, I had my work cut out for me…

MG

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