To Breathe

It used to be that I wrote out of emotion. That something would happen; someone would do or say something that fueled a fire within me and a frustrated mess of feelings found its way to the page in some form or another. I used to love the rush of directing all of my mental energy, all of my emotional preoccupations into something creative. I started writing as a way of getting everything out. It was messy, don't get me wrong. It was filled with anger, filled with sadness, filled with resentment and regret. I hated feeling the way I felt, and at the end of it all I'd be emotionally exhausted, but restored.

As I grew I became less and less emotionally invested, less emotionally affected, less creative in some ways. Writing, thinking, feeling became a means of vulnerability that I wouldn't afford myself, and it slowly phased out as something instinctual. Now, I often find myself without strong emotional responses, if any at all. I don't know where this came from specifically, I suppose it was the result of an adolescence filled emotional experience, as if I've used up my supply of this powerful motivator and all that remains is the harsh exterior of logic and reason. I've come to identify this as my major struggle, the battle between what is known and what is felt. Though I inhabit a world of reason, and function therein quite comfortably, the moments when emotion bursts through feel like bursts of fresh air on a warm, stale day. It's tough, even now as I sit at this keyboard, acknowledging that much of my life is spent without really feeling.

I suppose this is where religion comes into my life, and makes things interesting. To me, God epitomizes the idea of existence as felt. While there will be an endless search for empirical proof of God, He'll never be found in the realm of what is known. He may cross over in the individual that reflects that they just know, but this is merely an expression of feeling, albeit a strong feeling. God, Jesus, the Spirit, these aspects of the ever-present creator aren't meant to be known, but felt. Jesus isn't in my heart, He's somewhere in my brain in those sections responsible for His detection where I feel something beyond myself.

For me, this is what life should feel like. I often feel like I'm simply counting the days until life occurs, waiting for something beyond what is to awaken me to something greater. It's not about heaven, deliverance, salvation, it's about feeling existence. When I used to write, I felt it. It hurt, it stung, it numbed, but it also felt amazing. It was something indescribable. Now I don't know if that's what God feels like, but it was a sensation of the greatest magnitude, one that brings you to tears over nothing, stopping all movement and sound around you, captivating your very existence. I long to live outside the constraints of my own consciousness, to escape the numbing grasp of logic and reason long enough to let life in.

Whenever I write, whenever I want to be transported beyond the constraints of my own thoughts, I listen to music. For me, music is the language of the soul. I strive to leave the mind behind, to write not thoughts but feelings, and music allows me to access that small part of myself. I don't know if I really do have this emotional side that's been crippled by life or if what I listen to elicits its own response external to my logical self, but I know that in these times I start to feel alive. I write to live, not to be read. It is breath for my soul. I spend my days gasping for something I cannot explain, for something I simply know, for something felt. In these times, I breathe in deeply, allowing each individual emotion to fill my lungs, swirling its affects around as they flow throughout my body. Then I exhale, unaware of when I'll take this deep breath again, but appreciative of the opportunity to feel alive.

surrounded by death
embraced by life
enveloped in struggle
I submit

Happy Birthday to me, indeed.

Whaaaat, who is this guy? Two posts in such a short window! Now this is a blog worth following...

Now that I'm done patting myself on the back, let's get to it.

I shall now put on my philosopher hat as I ask..."what is a birthday?" Surely more than the day I was born, plus 23 years. Surely it has become something much more meaningful, much more sentimental, perhaps much more dreaded, a birthday is a commemorative excuse for celebration and the exchange of well wishes.

Now, those who know me well know I'm not much of a holiday guy at all. How do I console this with the fact that I had an awesome birthday? I'm working on it, I tells ya. (Tangent) I am not a fan of holidays as I believe that they tend to idolize a day above others for good tidings, good behaviour and general admonishments of love, neglecting moderation for overzealous hyperbole that, in contrast, makes other days some more dreary.

(A wild rhyming cynic appears!) Those who post upon walls, text instead of placing calls, respond late or perhaps not at all drain the sincerity from the claim happy birthday. It becomes another article of meaningless grunting along with such gems as "how's it going?" and "canucks-canucks-canucks, etc." If you really cared, says the lonely abscess of my subconscious, you'd make an effort to get personal in your message. If it really mattered at all to all you folks, you'd do more to make it something that reflects the value you place in our relationship.

Now see, that right there is some useless bit of selfish, prideful reflection. That right there is the product of an idolized day wherein I'm supposed to be treated specially and allowed to be high-maintenance under the cover of my special status as birthday boy. This is how I respond to this day when I treat it as anything more than what it is.

What is it? It is just a day. Though it provides an excuse for the over-sharing that breaks social character, the kind of over-sharing that says I love you, I love the person you are, the things you've done and the things you've helped me realize in the time we've known one another. These sentiments, for me, are the essence of friendship. Yet it is this companionship that is hidden behind all the other empty statements we use to do our little social song-and-dance, hiding and disguising our true thoughts. So at once, this day is entirely unspecial, and entirely amazing, as it allows us to be real, or not, but even in our hesitation confirm that there is a bond that is valued beyond the limits of the incomplete phrase "happy birthday".

See now, when I'm prideful I see these words and shake my head, demanding more, and neglecting the source, doubting any sentimental connection to this ghost phrase. Yet when I reflect, step down from upon a perch of socially constructed superiority, I realize that these words tell me that there are people out there loving me. There are people out there who care enough to pause life, borrow my attention, and affirm our relationship. Love isn't the eloquent MC-improv-poet stepping up to bestow blessings crafted for quote-books and re-tweets. Love is the attitude behind each individual whose will for their own happiness is momentarily halted as they seek to devote their time and energy to the happiness of another.

I love best when I am loved, and on a day when so many people reach out from their worlds to bestow joy on me, I feel equipped to love like crazy. Thanks to those who show love, in whatever form best finds their focus, I only hope you feel some sort of reciprocity in the love you demonstrate and know that your words, to me, represent a carefully constructed and well cared for bond.