quiet corner of the internet to archive my thoughts and feelings as i learn and grow and whatnot. i love to write and observe and think. i love milk and coffee. making coffee and buying my own milk is a pillar of my independence; as is thinking and writing. i decided to name this corner such. nothing written here is law. enjoy<3. fav old computer game for the nostalgia
"You're not supposed to watch it like that," my cousin drew me out of a pretentious daze. Sonder. I couldn't explain it to her. "12 deep sea jobs around the world." It held no meaning to me; as my nebulous explanation of 'sonder' held no weight to her. She was watching a 2 hour 19 minute and 37 second long documentary compiled of eposodic demonstrations of just that: 12 deep sea jobs around the world. Desperate to explain the obscure youtube title to my narrowing mind, she brought the video to a clear example: Taso. Taso is a Greek from Florida. He harvests sponges from the ocean floor - and he makes a living off this. I'd never thought twice about sea sponge. In fact the only example of it i could conjur up in my mind was sponge I'd placed in my hermit crab's cage as a child; but I'd never considered where the sponge came from. "He said he doesn't know how to do anything else." 12 deep sea jobs around the world. Out of how many? The title makes for an ancient chill down my spine. How to explain...How repulsive - this idea of the world being so large that there are people out there experiencing realities I haven't even had the chance to imagine just yet. Sonder. How many people would spend the eternity of their mortal life engaging in an activity that I've never stumbled upon - in my first life nor in my imagination - earning them a wage over the course of this lifetime, that I'll never engage with, witness, or even imagine? The overwhelming feeling of sonder. The most unfathomable sensation. "As a child did it ever occur to you-" I could barely find the words to support my own ideas, to realize them aloud. "Did you ever realize, as a child, that other people had their own mothers? Their own mornings? Afternoons, and evenings to experience?" I asked her. This realization no less potent each and every time it hits me since that first (in say - 2005?). Some epic poet has probably explained this. I'd know if I'd studied psychology (or sociology?). And somebody did, and is as I write this. But as of recent the feeling of sonder is a sickening one for me, that leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth. Even if I spit it out. Meaning, I can never even follow through with the thought. Every time I have this moment of realization, this sonder, I feel so small. "12 deep sea jobs around the world." Out of how many?
Sometimes I mourn people before they go. I'm not sure why, and yet I know that somewhere I do (know why). Same as my uncertainty in that I must not be the only soul to do this (surely). Perhaps to mimic the high one gets in that brief moment where the mind is convinced that they have truly gone. With this high comes honesty. You begin to structure a goodbye - fashioning an explanation that may or may not satisfy the definition of their presence in your life; your past, or present. And of course within the (now) impossible future. Such an honest sensation and yet I can't really find honest words for it. I used to only write down what I considered true. But I must admit that sometimes even my feelings are not truthful. I often bring them on with contexts my imagination musters up; willingly and occasionally unwillingly. Like when I mourn people who are still here, who I have never known living without. I would never dare wish for their loss (au contraire I wish them life). They are so present within my own that I imagine the act of mourning them intimately perhaps as a means of practice (who practices death?).I dare not even mention the gypsy in me who believes my thoughts summon reality as though adorned by magic or divinity; for she would surely believe that if such losses were to be realized in actuality she'd be to blame - her mind over matter.
I'm alone and I'm not sure where I am. But the sky is colored bright. I'm not sure if it's 1888 or 2025. If I'm Ruzena or Isabella. But I love it here. Oh my it's even raining. "How very lucky are we for just a moment to be part of life's eternal rhyme?" What a beautifully put sentiment. I'm shamed that it comes from Charlotte's Web. How nostalgic and kitschy (but true). How unfathomably immense, even in imaginary death. Of course, in imaginary death. I will listen to music now and my brows will arch in ecstasy for the now, and in anticipation of the next. Edit: I have just learned that this is called anticipatory grief.
It is truly essential that one should engage with the ideas (whether brought on by a poem, book, song, film, or figment of imagination) - it is truly essential that an individual engages with ideas that make them feel safe, and that we use our minds more to do this. With my mind I exist spatiotemporally. I can decide at any moment who and where I'd like to be thanks to my mind and its cultural footprint. With this, sometimes I am in Northumbria. Wessex. It is the the 9th century, and I am safe here. I have a man here; I know him well, and him, me - intimately. He is a man to follow and a man I listen for. I find him in the cold typically, and welcome him each time. With him comes his world which I also know well - hence my safety. I am far from home and my mother is not here but her memory holds. Other days (and more often nights) I find myself in Birmingham, England. It's the early 20th century and I have a history here. Leave me, I fare well here.
Sometimes my soul feels lost searching for yours. I'm not sure who you are or if you exist. Though you must if I feel your absence.
I decided today that he's not coming, so maybe now I will truly start living. I think I will move to Italy. Surely I will not search for him there. I suppose I should start by removing my headphones, and be present in my current state. My shades as well. The birds are singing and the trees are most green. Edit: I recently gave up on the task of finding a man to spend time with, which includes the men in my imagination (they only really existed in my imagination anyhow, I could never quite get close to one in real life - and I acknowledge this as some form of protection). And for the first time in 25 years I am going right to sleep instead of maladaptive day(bed)dreaming of an alternate reality. He is not coming and I am okay with this (finally). That is not to say never - it is to say I am AWAKE and selling myself a different dream.
"But you are you, ever gleaning crumbs to feed upon, so you listen closely while feigning nonchalance" (Sophie Mackintosh "Cursed Bread"). While slipping into the French Countryside constituted by Mackintosh's material 1951, fantasy brushed my reality's shoulder - and I was inspired to use this line to define circumstances I keep close and quiet. I am talking about monitoring spirits. Peers close to you that watch, listen, imitate; with no remorse and ill vigor. I have a monitoring spirit close to me with whom I am not sure what to do. I have never told this spirit that I see them for what they are, and sometimes I suffer in this silence. I have been told to take such monitoring and parroting as flattery or praise. As a creature of inspiration myself, I admire the negotiations between women that manifest visions of beauty and community. But the thorn in my side is that this individual is so internally wounded that their character would never allow them, in their parroting, to acknowledge their behavior as a form of adoration. I refuse to remain in such discomfort so I write to manage the thoughts. Sophie Mackintosh has written up a character of similar force, a woman gleaning crumbs to feed upon - listening closely and parroting all the while feigning nonchalance and an air of speciality. I could not ignore the similarity and I enjoy the words she found for such a creature. I however remain abundant, safe, protected (fiercly, divinely) attractive, and joyous. Now I will wander a worlds away.