Tuesday, January 15, 2008
I beginning to understand the mechanics of the unconscious and how it will keep resurfacing. But the question is, what am i repressing? Today, i will first attempt a logical perspective at my depressive emotions i am experiencing.
Sometimes, works of art are so powerful, they invoke within the recipient emotions and affects there were latently dormant in the individual. These resonances are derived from past experiences, presumably traumatic, painful experiences. But this is not to discount that certain art, though less frequently, summon forth feelings of joy. The reason one reacts and different people react very dissimilarly to the same piece of work can perhaps be attributed to a post modern phenomenon of the work being a mirror to the self. We take away from art what we wish to take away from it. More frequently than not, it is a conscious deliberate attempt at creativity, but taken from the subjective perspective of an audience, may it be a book, a film, a painting or any other discernible medium, it merely reflects the fragmented self. We hate a piece of work as in a moment of self reflexivity, we identify aspects of ourselves we hate but deny we possess. Other times we love it as it projects forth an idealised or perhaps desired emblem of the perfect self, something which from birth we endlessly strive towards, but never ever fulfilling gratification of fulfillment. Tragically, there is no final moment of peace in achieving a comfortable moment in our own skin. Such were aspects i consciously regard as circumstance suffice to force or illicit a powerful emotional response. The best way to encapsulate my emotions at this point of time is that of philosophical anguish and existential angst. How do i deal with these moments of madness, i reach out blindly through the electronic medium of the internet, typing frantically to reach out, in hope kindred spirits may take me in their arms, and hold me in my frailty. I do not want to be mediocre, i want more than i can perceive. Rational thought spells out that i am old beyond my years and logic illustrate a bleak picture of me as a cog in the capitalistic machinery of the state. What about the master text? What about something lasting, meaningful, when will i ever find the will and power to cast that pebble into the flux of time. Tears well up in my eyes every time i say these words, "I do not want to be mediocre". These tears are tears of frustration, of a certain anguish due to awareness, yet an inability to change one's inevitable circumstances.
The gentle hum of an electric fan permeates the underside of my electronic window as the smell of iron gently lingers in the distance. The orange light from my table lamp shone brightly like the sun, casting strange shadows of doubt over me, over my world as i begin to ponder my own meaningless existences. I question, i wonder as thoughts zoom past my mind. My fingers dance over the keyboard like butterflies in a lily field, gently and playfully attempting to capture my contemplation in honey. The cool chilly wind reminded me of the artificial enviroment that holds me captive, and the harshness of the red night beyond my real window reminds me that the outside is not my home too. I struggle against wordlessness, penning, writing, in hope that by a endless stream of noting down my thoughts, that i may master my fear with language, contain issues and problems in words, and perhaps over time, conquer and vanquish my deepest fear. I fear the lost of past, i fear for the present, and i fear a mediocre future.
Posted by Jo