There’s something worse than people knowing. People not knowing, then finding out and have a bright red truck of realisation ram into their brains and drag them out into the sunlight.
The next time someone asks me how the interviews went, I think I might have to start singing the Goofy Goober song just to scare them off so I don’t have to answer the question.
(Oh here’s another song about a gender I’ll never understand WOOO-OOO WOOO-OOO if this is a rom-com, kill the director)
I’ve got my own analogy for love. It’s like a photon, a light particle(trust Cheryl to always have a Physics-related analogy lurking somewhere in her right brain), a localised bundle of energy. It’s not matter; you can’t actually hold it in your hand and let it slip through the gaps between your fingers. You can’t see it; you can’t claim to see light, you can only see its effects on matter. The way it illuminates a room and every object lying around. Our lives, our daily routines are centered around the presence of light. Sunlight is the main source of energy for not just plants, but the whole polluted and overpopulated Earth. And it’s something we can’t even see. The best things in life aren’t seen, but felt with the heart. Can you say, cliches that are annoyingly true. Just as you stagger backwards and shield your eyes when the lights are suddenly switched on in a dark room, love throws us off balance when we least expect it. Just as photons of a sufficiently high frequency can release electrons from a metal when their energies are absorbed, love of sufficient depth can(but doesn’t necessarily) liberate the negatives-pain, hurt, resentment, bitterness-that we bind so closely to our heart and stubbornly refuse to let go. You know how they say seeing is believing? Well, tell them to go curl up in a hole and study some Einstein. Ignorant dimwits.
But that’s just an analogy that simplifies love down to a mere paragraph on a computer screen, not a definition for a subject, a thing(a non-thing?) that is inherently incomprehensible and indefinable. I’ve come across so many blogs, so many thoughts on paper, so many frustrated poets attempting to define love. And have failed by reducing love, in all its vastness and diversity, down to two figures: <3. An angle bracket and a number. Love is less than 3? 3 what? 3 diamond rings? 3 ponies? 3 boyfriends that got past first base? The only definition of love that fits like a fingerless glove(because my pinkies are too little to be snugly encased by normal gloves) is God. And God, He’s the most indefinable out of all things indefinable.
I’ve come across musings and ramblings about love, some that make sense(to me at least) and some shallower than a puddle on flat concrete, but nothing I’ve completely agreed with. So I’m joining the party. I’m going to ramble and muse and reflect and draft and cancel out and draft and cancel out even more. I’ll explore, I’ll observe, I’ll infer, I’ll draw from personal experiences. And I’ll litter this place with my findings, weaved into sentences, paragraphs, anecdotes, prose and I’m not going to attempt poetry for now. I’m one person. I’ll probably be highly inaccurate, I’ll probably come back here 5 years from now and sneer at 17-year-old self’s naivety and cringe at shallow thinking and immature writing style; I tend to do that. But whatever, I never expected it to be accurate. After all, once I’m through with my little journey I’ll go ask God myself. So here you go, just in case you think I suddenly decided to go all sappy and head-in-the-cotton-candy-clouds on you. My head’s still intact, I’m just making friends with a different side of it.
So I’ve been working on an allegory for the past 2 hours and I must say, I hate the way I sound when I try to be sentimental. I hate over-sentimentality. I hate that my descriptions are so shallow and I can’t find the right blend of words to convey emotion while remaining clever and witty. I actually disgust myself. I’ve also discovered that writing in third-person sucks. Why write it if I can’t even get involved? What a waste of precious swotvac hours that could’ve been spent ingraining differential calculus into my brain (or not). This is why I can’t do English Comms; imagine the bite marks I’d leave on my descriptive essay pieces. I can no longer write like a normal person.
I admire people who can write anecdotes and allegories and analogies (ooh alliteration!) without sounding like they’ve just spent a week watching The Notebook and A Walk To Remember on replay. But I’m going to stick to writing from my heart/brain/gall bladder for now. Till I find the time to trawl the library shelves for pages that reek of 100-year-old wisdom and add to my arsenal of vocabulary and bury myself in the works of W.B. Yeats, Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, Alfred Tennyson or some other fancy-sounding poet, you’ll just have to put up with my facetious remarks in between deep, reflective thoughts and me not taking my writing too seriously. I’ll have to put up with me anyway.
Dear Mark Twain, we are going to be best friends after the 11th of November and you are going to give me some of your insight and wit.
Hey diddle diddle,
The physicists fiddle,
The Bleep jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed to see such fun
And died the following June.
- Paul Dehn
“Walking Away”, C. Day Lewis
(Why is it that when you find something vaguely intelligent to say, your blog won’t load? Law of the turtle: expression of intelligence is at times stifled by the idiocy of Telstra broadband and retarded-snail internet speed. Telstra the turtle. Hey look, new mascot!)
Hi Cheryl,
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YAY THIS MEANS I WILL DEFINITELY PASS MY EXAMS BECAUSE MY PASSWORD IS IN THE HANDS OF THE WAFFLES.
