Monday, September 6, 2010

Opus d'Élan Vital

Writing is my music, and my canvas whereon I capture the palette of my imagination. Life breathed into my tender nine-year-old mind when my pen conveyed me to a place where thoughts became words, and words became images. Writing has since been the phantom gatekeeper of my most magnificent reflections and most poignant introspections.

Photography is my magic. It captures moments of time that someday will transport me to the past and bring to mind all of the beauty I have experienced with those I love. Life is my toolbox. It is the surgeon's instrument with which I craft my future, and sculpt my eternity.

There are times in life where we have filled our days with meaningless acts and thoughts until we lose our own identity in bland, consuming emptiness. When at last we open our eyes to see a vast expanse of desert before us, those once meaningful things melt away in the hot sun of reality and our true self steps forward. Perhaps long forgotten, and long silenced, it straightens, the dust trickling off of its magnificent form. It breathes in the empty air, and when it exhales, life begins anew.

We realize that our greatest captor is the captive who also holds the keys to our freedom. Somewhere in the clouds of unhappy measure, we created a cage of expectations and fear of disappointments, thereby submitting to a massive granite yoke carved out by our own hands. We are free to place it on the ground and let another assume its load. The weight has hung so long upon our shoulders that our veins seem to have grown through it, feeding it whilst we starve, heaving it whilst we sink under its pressure.

What we are is free; as free as our choices allow us to be. Our minds know no bounds. There is no moment when our hearts are unable to feel more, nor occasion when the mind is completely full, and yet not every morsel of knowledge is equally weighed. There is no brick of wisdom so broad, so immense, that we cannot consume it one grain at a time, despite the fact that so many minds are rather fed upon the spun sugar of petty platitudes. Minute by minute, hour by hour, we consume and are never full, while wisdom and truth wait patiently in the wings for a time when our minds are unclouded long enough to see them there.

The mouths of the mind are the eyes and the ears, opening the windows of the soul to the outside world. Through them we gather the soup in which our hearts simmer, the marinade that flavors our marrow, and the fragrance of our thoughts. We are the magnum opus of paragraph, millieu, and picture, pieced together over a lifetime, our souls consuming the very things that they would become.

No comments:

Post a Comment

You may also want to read:

Related Posts with Thumbnails