a meditation on sadness...

Lately, I've been chanting "I give up", a lot. To myself. I've moved on from my "I don't care" chant of old. It's progress. Backwards, maybe, but still progress. I don’t know.

I like playing with fire, so I light a candle, place it on the ledge by my window, and turn off the lights. The flame creates shadows, and the shadows whisper the poetry of the wind into my ears. It is all quite beautiful. I take my pocket notebook out of my pocket and burn it. Page after page, I feed the hungry wick of the incensed candle; self-doubt cured only by the fire's rage. Nothing is perfect, but perhaps vacillation is.

The pages burn slowly, and the ashes scatter into the night, turned shadow. Some ashes still carry the heroic orange glow of the relentless blaze, but the night stubs it just as quickly as it is met.

The fire forgives. The fire forgets. The fire extinguishes.

What was once a book full of my ideas, is now suddenly gone. There is nothing left, and I have nothing to show for what once was. Well, there is the lingering odor of burning paper, because my sweatshirt loves collecting odors. My sweatshirt remembers smell like the rain remembers first love. I remember some things I’d written in my notebook, but too little to matter. It is all somewhere within the mist of my mind though. I like retiring thoughts to my subconscious. And my subconscious never lets me down when I need it.

Slowly, an absence begins to manifest itself as an undefinable, haunting presence, and I feel the swell of life from every inward breath. I can hear myself breathe and I can feel my own body in the way that only loss can make you feel things.

The undeniable presence of this absence will forever haunt me. I have never felt anything so real, and yet so surreal. Loss has always jailed itself in the cavity of my chest, upon the ruins of my youth.

I love bringing things that don't belong together, together. And somehow, so does language, it would seem, like the people who once decided that trees will have barks. I take a photograph of the candle and I decide that some day I will pair it with its own tale, a story that only I know. I create all my work in pairs. One photograph and one piece of text inspired. But I want my work to date each other; so while I play god, I also play sadist (if they are both not one of the same agency) and I keep the soul mates apart for as long as they can be kept apart, allowing them to find each other only in desire. Yours, mine, and theirs.

There's a strength to simplicity and a beauty in the delicate. Expensive china with its intricate patterns are a beautiful sight, but do you know that feeling you get when you hold it in your hands? A little fear that it will go to pieces, should you falter? It's what makes the piece beautiful. It's what makes your heart melt. Fragility is special. The fleeting impermanence of everything is where my lust for insignificances will both begin and end. Fear of loss is the most honest emotion that I have ever felt, overshadowed only by loss itself.

My life is diluted by choice. By the choices I’ve made. On some days, it is enriched, but today, it is dilute. But I find beauty in sadness. Sadnesses are so unusually satisfying, albeit heart-wrenching, because they are so tangibly voyeuristic unto the soul– as if you can reach out and touch your own secrets, and weigh them down with a sigh.