What I’m Missing

I write everyday, or at least I try to. Some days are misnomers, outliers, but I suppose this is always going to be so. Some days, I inevitably write more than other, and some days I am unable to write at all. But, the actual writing isn’t a problem. Or at least, it hasn’t been yet. When I look hard enough, the words are always there, waiting for me. And this is something I’m grateful for.

So, this is something I think about a lot. Sometimes I even wallow in a swamp of contemplation, regarding it in the darkest of light. I don’t inherently find writing hard. Of course that doesn’t mean what I write is genius or even acceptable, but the sentences, and the paragraphs, for the most part, they come easily. It is what I write, the context, and the themes which I find conflict within.

I have done very few things. I have experienced very few moments. I have known relatively few people.

In turn, this makes it difficult to inflect certain things within my writing, hard to convey ideas and feelings in the ways I feel most appropriate. I see it like a lake. And the lake I draw the ideas and the words from is in dire need of rainfall, of water to replenish its dwindling reserves, its limited complexity. But for that rain to fall, certain things have to happen within myself. I have to leave the house, interact, in the face of my anxiety. I have to not be terrified of the outside world. It is the biggest mountain that has ever blocked the path on my journey. Somewhere on the other side lay the place I desperately need to reach. A place I have to believe will become a reality at some point in the future.

I need new experiences. I need things to imbue my writing. Maybe it is a self-indulgent, narcissistic venture. But I believe honest, good, happy, and knowledgeable lives are built on the foundation of experience. The more of it I have – no matter what form – the more able I am to say the words I desperately want to say.

-Chris ❤

 

The Effort Put In

Youthful, or it may seem.

A day, a change in time.

A year, a change in history.

Something we live; something we breathe.

Experience, what does it mean?

Can it be valued… surely.

It has to mean more than anything.

For without it, what is living?

Though on days, it is hard to greet;

That possibility of something that’s new to me.

Waiting, willing it to come.

Yet in the midst of everything it does not.

Because the effort put in was far too thin.

 

Blatant Credence

Life, it is so goddamned smart.

Living here, dying there.

Asking questions;

Fucking everywhere.

Look to the past, it is a drag.

Wondering what it is that’s there.

Am I paranoid;

I wouldn’t doubt it.

Look, it’s not that I am depressed.

Just looking for something of a rest.

Do not lie when I say this.

But please stop with the relentless theories.

Is there any certainty.

Here I sit, wondering what’s in store for me.

An endless judgement of absurdity.

How can this be true reality?

I get the train to one pure place.

Seeing our land of utter disgrace.

In the eyes, of us the people.

Taking each view in blatant credence.

Loneliness, my dear friend.

Faking it to the bitter end.

But do please stand by and stare;

While I rip out my fucking hair.

 

Irksome

Blue-ness

Passing through the dark of night.

Each day, awaking to something new.

All things, they come and go.

A world spinning, to places no person knows.

Staring through those blue eyes.

Stagnating in places we cannot find.

A life so dear to you.

A world both of black and blue.

Something deemed a reverie.

Searching among those days gone by.

Peering into that bright blue sky.

I ask what I wouldn’t do.

Astounded, blanked by those faces too.

Days they seem to be;

Alive with something they cannot see.

 

Tiny Stories – The Subtleties of Mountain Goats

The Subtleties of Mountain Goats


Have you ever stared at a mountain goat for a significant amount of time? I have.

The funny thing about mountain goats is that they’re not funny at all. At a first glance they look somewhat amusing with their almost mythical-like appearance. And yet, after a few moments something breaks through the surface. A sadness in them, a deep, deep languid state of non-being that seems to reside within their pitifully small black eyes.   

I sat watching it for what seemed like a decade. I watched as it placed its thick woollen legs on the side of a cliff and began to climb. Up and up it went, unfaltering, unnerved, for climbing was what it lived for. Half way I thought I saw signs of second thoughts. It glanced down, hesitated for a moment. Then it returned its gaze upwards and began to ascend once again, stronger than ever.

Finally, it reached the top. With a decisive swing of its head it looked down. And then as if instructed to do so, turned around and vanished.

I felt sad. Sad that I could no longer see it climb. Sad that I couldn’t know how it felt for reaching the top. So, I just sat there, I waited for it to come back. For it to start descending the cliff. Then I would walk over and ask it: How something of its seemingly unfit size could achieve such a feat, with such apparent ease.

I don’t know how long I waited, but I never saw the goat again.

Instead I made it my mission to find the goat for myself. I stood at the bottom of the cliff, looking up at the top, over a hundred feet away. Slowly I raised a foot and pulled myself onto the first outcrop, then the second, and the third. I thought to myself that this wasn’t so bad, that I would be at the top in no time at all.

My climbing grew slower, not even a quarter of the way up. My legs felt heavy, my arms ached, and my mind began to weaken. The outcrops where I placed my feet no longer looked small, they looked infinite. Above me the cliff seemed to stretch far into the clouds, into places where no goats’ eyes had ever been. It terrified me. The knowledge that I had been trying so hard, so valiantly. And yet, I was nowhere at all.

Looking down, the ground seemed so close I could almost touch it. All I could do was descend, and hope that one day, maybe the goat might return. Then I would make him tell me the secrets to climbing the cliff, to scaling its surface effortlessly.

It was not because he was a mountain goat that he could climb the cliff – he knew something I didn’t. Of that, I was certain.

My Personality Type – INFP-T

So, I took a personality test (I did it here – https://www.16personalities.com/) and apparently I’m an INFP-T.

I’m about as introverted as you can get, and about as turbulent as you can get. With good amounts of intuitiveness and prospectiveness in there too. Now, it says I am a dreamer, a true idealist who is always looking for the good in the world. Sure, I answered the questions honestly even when I didn’t like the answer I was giving. And I suppose, I do search for the good, hope that it is out there in droves. Though, it is more complicated. A part of me rationally thinks that the majority of people out there just aren’t good. I don’t know how I feel about this, or how it fits into things. It’s as though I hope things, and people will always be good, underneath. Yet, I know this is not the actual reality we all live in.

According to the page, only 4% of people have this personality type. I suppose I can see why. Things aren’t always the easiest. Finding people who I can relate to, who I don’t inadvertantly offend – it is a terribly hard, tiring. Although, It is a challenge that I royally accept (on a good day, anyway). Something to work towards. A way in which to imporve myself. Then again, I suppose we don’t choose who we are, what are ‘mind-make-up’ is.

Whilst the negative aspects plauge each day of my life, the positves equally enrich them in surely a more rewarding way. Replacing more than what is taken. Or… this is what I believe anyway. And isn’t believing the most important part of anything?

I am creative. I am passionate for the things I love. I am sensitive to most things. I can’t control my emotions. Friendships/relationships are dreadfully hard. I prefer a book to a party. I think far too much about certain things. 

In the end, I am who I am… a person who I’m slowly getting to know and accept.

What’s your personality ‘type?’