#neologize

Neologize

Pronounced: nee-ol-uh-ja-hyz

Art is believed, and has even lived, to be self-destructive.

In art, various persons come alive through its various forms. In color, there is a mayhem of visions, of dreams. In melodies, there is a conviction of scenery, like listening to a daydream. In the written word, a havoc of symbols and metaphors making up the entirety of even a small thought. And in a sense, there is destruction even in the tiniest bit, in creation.

The way you hover your fingers above a wrong key, thumping them to the black and white. And to move like so, it seems as if your fingers would have to have mind of their own, in an attempt of a melody, of a harmony in the rage of each finger. It either felt like losing all control and letting Apollo or a higher being take control of you, or pinpoint accuracy, almost worshiping the piece. Playing the piano made me quite chaotic.

Staring blankly mirroring the page in front of you can be maddening. The ache to write, to surpass previous wisdom, just stares right back at you, almost beckoning you to press the tip of the pen to it. And after a few messy scrubs of ink on your fingers and the sides of your hand do you only realize that the symbols making the words that make up paragraphs do not blend, do not  clash, do not speak one truth. As if the page speaks in different tongues, different intensities to try to conceive a solid thought, something that spawned from one root instead of a million. Here I am hoping that being a writer won’t make me better or worse, but rather, it would make me human.

In the stroke of the paintbrush, and every dab of color onto the surface, you hope that it will come together. You hope, and you stroke, and mix, then stare, and hope some more. You could make a frame with your thumbs and index fingers to that one spot you like, the familiarity of the hues blending evenly. Or use the same patchwork to cover the unstained spaces left. You feel that one side is contrasting to the other, like the entire canvas contains two or more images rather than making up a whole scenery. Like a divided rainbow, taking the side where one feels the most for. The most calming, the most favorite, the most captivating. And you hold the paintbrush in your hand asking yourself if it all makes sense or not. And maybe it doesn’t, but paintwork always amazed me. It made me believe in variety and how all of it comes together.

Art is everywhere, literally. Ideas splattered around the space, emotions colliding into the solid walls of your brain, a maddening sensation in self destruction. And in that unbecoming, there is trust that it is you and it is art.

I’m an anemic insomniac who is too sad to wake up in the morning but too anxious to sleep it off. Some of us can be a tad bit insensible, some a tad bit insensitive. But whatever your reason, there just seems to be a little more of something, and much less of another. Everything is fleeting by and the seemingly worst thing is having to start the day. An hour for this, you lose an hour for something else. A small load off, and it fills right back up after point five seconds of nothing. The universe can be quite restless, can’t it? It’s as if it wants more out of you, then it wants less of something else. And for our lives’ sake, we slave away to get whatever we dream of. Somehow, it all feels like dying to live tomorrow. There doesn’t seem to be a moment of peace and reprieve. We bet our goals with our lives, agreeing to lose half of it for a month or two to live the dream. It feels unfair, no matter what kind of sacrifice you do. The only thing you’re left with are the hours in a day left to accomplish what’s left of you. 

What is left of you? All the promises you told yourself shooed away for room for things that are supposedly more important in living a fulfilled life. On the contrary, it is a person’s dreams, what he aspires to obtain, what makes his eyes light up at the very thought of it, working towards it. Purpose. A reason to keep living. And yet there are 365 days and a fourth of one, approximately 52 weeks, twelve months all in one year; there still doesn’t seem to be enough time to enjoy what should be the whole lot of you. You, the summation of joints and parts all created to do marvelous things and to want, need, and feel marvelous things. But we all live as such that we waste what we have for the things in a world telling us we can have it all. The paradox of wanting something, is that you can’t have it without giving something away in exchange. 

A quiet little show under eyelashes that bat with mystery. How many memories can you recall of biting your tongue, of a voice dying in the recesses of your throat, of a gnawing feeling at the back of your mind? It eats you up and throws the leftovers into the pit of your stomach. It’s an internal battle when it comes down to you and your own thoughts. Should the words ever spill over a guilty pair of lips, should they be stained with calluses from biting onto them too often. I know you wish to speak up and be heard. You have a lovely pair of eyes that sees the world with so much depth, thought, empathy. The world and society can be two different points of view. You see the world without a pair of glasses, stumbling blindly with your vision as vague as the world displayed. Society, the world close up, is when you take your glasses and put them on to see more clearly, to see what’s going on. And that’s when you start to care what society thinks, that’s when you start to care and overthink. And maybe for someone like you who never needed the opinion of the people who barely matter, you don’t need society. Would you ever bite your tongue? Would you feel your voice dying at the recesses of your throat? Would your head hurt at the gnawing feeling? Just because you choose not to see them doesn’t mean they won’t hear you. Worry about what you see, what happens to what you see, and how you can make everyone see what you do. I believe a blind man can see more clearly than any one of us because they rely on what they feel, the take in what people give and not what other people re wearing. The deaf could be more focused on what really matters because they can’t hear people putting them down. 

But you, you are wonders. You can work wonders. If these people can do things with a part of them dysfunctional then why shouldn’t you? Blame it on the elements, for you live under their mercy. Blame it on the universe not granting you this one chance because far too many ideas are being born all at once. Or blame it on yourself, your cowardice and lack of strength. Blame it on the circumstances that people are watching, and they could hurt you for you hurting what they’ve come to believe. But know that pointing fingers isn’t going to free your heart. It’s not going to open the door to what you have to say, but rather, it locks the door shut.