The Curious Adventures of Gordan's Thoughts

I’m In Love with Poisoning

Would you allow our play to leave no bone unbroken?
~AFI~

 

You always remember your firsts.

An experience cannot (and should not) be explained, it can only be appreciated.

Rather than explaining an experience, one may romanticize it; romanticize, to freeze a moment and express it as it was felt. Romanticize, not romance as the definition of love, but romanticizing an experience so beautiful that a memory created should not be erased.

One can romanticize an experience, and thus freeze-frame it with as much detail and description, to come back to the memory and evoke an emotion that in time becomes a part of history. But is that not what emotion is, after all? Is it not partially a correlation between remembered feelings?

When one reaches the age of reason – or rather, when one has dealt with a history so “eventful” and challenging; when one has learned to cope and deal with the perils of maturing, it hits a pinnacle of emotional capacity. At that stage, one does not often deal with new emotions, rather a correlation between experiences felt between separate events.

Receiving one’s first gift is an amazing experience: for every gift received thereafter always brings us back to our first experience of receiving a gift. The remembered emotion; the remembered experience.

Photos speak a thousand words, but words themselves can freeze a moment and record the experience as it is felt. One does not explain the experience – one wants to know it as a memory and not recreate it as a fantasy. Expressing the memory, romanticizing an experience is what provokes passion. It is a metaphorisation of an abstract reality – but reality nonetheless. When one’s surrealism and reality intertwine and colour the memory which was meant to be black and white, the contrivance in metaphysics renders an explosion in an allegorical universe.

Every detail, every “mundane triviality,” if romanticized as beautifully as experienced, becomes the foundation for a memory, and in turn adds substance to what is commonly recognized as “prosaic.” Every limitation has a loophole: every limitation has a weakness designed to be broken through.

Moments pass; memories linger.

Retrospections last; experiences remembered.

Our emotional memory bank is resilient and buoyant. As we analyse our present in relation to our past, our experiences tolerance and acceptance level expands. All is proportionate: our experiences determine our values and priorities. The parallels between our pain and pleasure capacity are, in every respect, connected. If one has felt deep pain, one will (at any point in life) experience the same proportion of happiness.

The equilibrium and equanimity that one develops through experiences is undeniably remarkable.

Anyone can write about pain – transcribing happiness is challenging.

And to romanticize happiness – an experience so pure and so gratifying – divulges the experience to an unmitigated vertex.

An apogee. An obelisk. A culmination.

A climax.

Experiences can be frozen and treasured, preserved deep in the vault of an emotional memory bank.

Experiences and memories, when romanticised, merges the line between fantasy and memory.

Our concern for complications renders the negligence of simplicity.

        But the beauty of it all lies in the simplicity that the memory is not a construction – the simplicity of its surrealism.

Spectrum

Wearing your heart like a stolen dream
Opening skies with your broken keys.
~Zedd~

And as the realisation that a reality may soon fade into a memory, I find myself animating words and scenarios in hopes that I can forever cherish the memory with a decor so relevant to the image.

Sounds and music an instantaneous trigger; portraits of each yesterday flood my consciousness with a hunger for just a little longer, a thirst for inspiration. There it was, within reach: but so was a fear that a firm grip on this dream would only push it away. I wanted so badly to embrace every essence of richness and cognition.

“A kindred know-it-all” was the chosen phrase, quoted directly and without paraphrasing. Perhaps the acknowledgement of an association too blatant, yet amidst a silence which is yet to be bestowed, a captivating endearment echos within the empty walls.

Thoughts, images, memories, ideas seep into my cognisance as I dwell on every word once spoken. Analysing the reasons behind each word, contrasting intent and expression.

Paradoxical as it all may be, the fact is that it’s quite possible my expectations were somewhat subjective. Daring to venture into the realms of the unknown has always been my forte – it just so happens that the forte I have stumbled upon at this moment has very obvious unknowns.

True beauty masked by a chassis of diction, academics and knowledge. Wisdom hidden in the crevices of each broken crack. Magnetism radiating from behind every locked door.

A forte not abandoned, but holding secrets waiting to be discovered. It’s shadows and strange sounds driving out unwanted visitors, pushing away strange characters.

A forte, challenging any bold adventurer to explore, apprehensive about a new traveler disrupting a peace and quiet one has become accustomed to. A forte, waiting to be discovered, waiting for its secrets to be revealed – waiting for the right hands to appreciate its fragility.

A forte, robust and beautiful, but mounted in the distance, far away from all. Hidden by the purlieus of every distance and gap between the forte and human interaction. Not inaccessible to those within proximity, but only the brave and perceptive dare to go the distance to enter this forte.

Perhaps one may have been granted a slight glimpse at the treasures inside, and yet extenuating circumstances prevented the traveler from entering the forte per se.

Whether it be a change in weather, a slip of a foothold; whether it be an obstacle or hindrance, a trap or a trigger.

Whatever the reason, when an adventurer is prepared to go forth into an unknown realm, he has always accounted for variable change.

And thus, this variable change may even result in being chained to the walls in the dungeon, far, far away from audibility (but not too far that he is impervious). Chained, while his screams are silenced by a burning desire that cooperation may be the only way out.

So he considers surrendering  because he made it in. Despite the forte’s attempts at scaring him off, his stubborn yet futile attempts at digging for treasure satisfy his rebellion against common sense. He chooses to stay rather than bolt, unless four walls close in on him and the foundations of the forte shatter.

Though that is entirely unlikely.

But then again, the forte has not been fully explored. Any movement, absolutely any movement, could result in chaos and disruption.

To risk, or not to risk.

Braveheart.

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