Last Christmas

Today, for the first time in a long time, I was excited to be alive--the future seemed limitless, not redundant and needless as usual. As I held my gaze on Seoul, far below, my breath was stolen. There was excitement and desire, promise and fortitude.

   When I came to Korea, I was on the verge on growing mad--losing all hope of ever rekindling the ability to have a rational thought, my self-efficacy was hemorrhaging at an alarming rate. But each day it is slowly returning. Today was the first day I noticed the vast improvement--the mental state that I am currently engaged in is vastly superior to the dark place I inhibited last August, when I left. I can reflect upon the dark places that dredged me to Korea in the first place. 

   Each day brings hope: of being fixed, of negating the evil within me, of finding peace of mind. The taste of almond flour, coconut oil, cocoa powder, and avocado remind me of last December--last December, what a dark place--last Christmas, darker still, or the days that would follow (the darkest of all days). To steal a metaphor I'm fond of (from a song that's heartwrenching still) I'm still within the rose. I'm still the same person, with the same naive ideology. But I'm marginally more intelligent, I'm marginally closer to where I need to be. Where I need to be, where I never need to be is Halifax, what a dark place. 

   The world seems so small. Nowhere is more than a day away.

Last Christmas I was in a comatose state, I existed but was not alive--I was human, but with faux desire. I breathed, because it was inconvenient not to--but life was not happening to me--I was looking down on somebody, trying to awaken them, trying to teach them happiness. I thought I would never escape, I thought I would follow a dark road. From last Christmas I became somebody else--somebody I didn't wish to be--somebody trying to escape, and numb himself through artificial means. Somebody who was hopeless. I'm still not whole, I'm still bitter, and lost. But now I'm vaguely aware that the labyrinth may have an exit after all. 

This Christmas I will be in Sri Lanka, to contrast with last year's darkness. 

What If?

"When we came together I realized the whole thing was just a dream. A weird, wakeful kind of dream that's hard to explain.” He hesitated, and reformed his discourse “And it became obvious that time isn't the same for you as it is for me." He lowered his gaze.
   “Keep going,” she said. She smiled, not a real smile, but it was still encouraging.
   “I realized that nothing I did while I was away really mattered, I was just filling time.”
   "How'd you figure all that out?"
   "A lot of thinking, probably too much thinking. But I'm glad I thought it—all of it."

Remember all the stupid shit you did to remedy yourself, and fill the crevasses of your soul—the cracks in your walls of isolation? Remember brooding upon the straggling scars tracing your being? Bound together with medical tape and sutures, you sought to heal yourself. You were your own doctor—some kind of metaphysical surgeon superseding all limitations. You were laying in a pile of your own pieces. You're still not whole. You're still jaded. You're still bitter. You're still abstract. You're still gathering words together... to make sense of it.   

   What if all your mad thoughts, weren't so mad after all? Perhaps all you are, and all you imagine yourself to be, is more than a figment of your imagination. You are, after all, a being of your own cognition. Furthermore, the wasted days—the moments of your darkest hour—may not have been as circumventive as you thought, but instead became the mold of your unique bundle of flesh that still, without doubt, breathes and lives—though maybe not in the traditional sense. 

   I see through closed doors—I know nothing is what it seems! Imagine, I dare you, think of a place anywhere in the world—a deserted corner that is uniquely yours—a happy place, or the place you go to grieve. Now imagine you were dropped at a random coordinate around the globe and were told to find your way back to “your place.” Given ample time and resources you could do it—such is the power of the human brain—an ability to navigate from memory.

The world is just a series of closed doors, and rooms. At any given time we can only see one room, but there is an infinite number of rooms coexisting concurrently. If you traversed to another room, and left your room behind, how would you be sure that your room ever existed? No thought I've ever thought has been sensical. 

There's no water, but I'm drowning

Everything is O-K, but I'm flailing

I'm happy, sorta, but something is missing

Standing Still

If my feet stop moving—if I hesitate—I will start thinking again, and that is terrible for my health. If gears start turning—tiny gizmos in my brain space—then I may forget to appreciate the potential glee a moment could bring. The days are rigid—if they aren't rigid there’s too much of that awful thing—the aforementioned poison, the toxin, I wish to avoid. So the days are scheduled, with only ten minutes for thinking—ten minutes for not being alive, ten minutes for reminiscing, brooding, and being otherwise dreary, and unsociable. And after the allotted time has passed again, the clocks restart—the people resume to walk—and life is, more or less, the same as it was before the thinking—aside from fifteen or twenty new epiphanies,

I’m searching for stepping stones, to abridge each day. I would like to walk across the lake, but I

Sink…

Sink…

Sink…

Because between you an me—this is a secret so we shan't whisper this to anyone—sometimes I think when I shouldn’t. Sometimes I think things that I wish would not be thought. But those thoughts sink with me, until I become afloat. But when I do dredge myself free of those thoughts I’m me again. But sometimes they resurface along the shore, as I walk back, and I start to consider the possibility that they weren't bad thoughts after all. When I think they are no longer thought—that they are gone for good—I go back to the beach and pull them from the sand. And they are as they always were, not great but good enough, considering they came from MY head. 

I’m searching for stepping stones, to create a path oblique from any prior—a path that moves forward, and doesn't tend to lead back towards home again. I’m searching for continuity and the seams to untattered the parts of me that still need to be sewn. 

Halloween

This week was pretty hectic. I lurched by back doing 1RM testing on Saturday and I was in a lot of pain for a couple of days, but it gave me a great idea for a short story! My back is still a little sore but I have been up to 85% and seem to be fine so I am going to be starting a four week squat block 5 times a week with one recovery day.

   Time has been a commodity. Every wakeful moment seems to be busy--but I guess being busy is a choice. I've sent off two short stories to literary magazines and am on the process of finishing off a couple others. I've been reading a lot this week, short fiction, trying to become the best writer possible. I have been imposing 10 hour work days upon myself on Saturday's and Sunday's, with 1 day off every two weeks. I'm exhausted. But it's a good exhausted. 

   The school I am working in is undergoing renovations, so on Saturday I helped with moving furniture from the first floor to the fifth. It was good. It was really good. There's nothing like manual labour to keep your mind clear. 

This is what my schedule looks like on a normal weekday:

7:45am wake

7:50am shower/make breakfast

8:05am Studying Korean

9:05am Get ready for work

9:30am Start Work

12:30pm lunch/study korean

1:30 Work

7:00pm Get off work

7:30-9:30pm Write/edit/magazine submissions

9:30 Gym

11:30-12:30 More writing

12:30am- Reading fiction/non fiction

I'm tired. But good tired.