Blogmas 2020 Day Twenty One: Joy to the World

 We all live our life with numerous fissures within us; some we've been existing with all this while, and some, made from our own misdemeanours. I feel, as humans, whatever we're foraging for is unto us to ensure it fills us in. Often, we commit a grave gaffe celebrating the encounter of only one of a million elements that we chase, and use it to try, and plug all our crevices. A lot of us are running on empty, most times. To shoulder the albatross, and to also drain something from the same tribulation, of providing all the puzzle pieces, is how we make ourselves, and others juice out.

I find it quite flakey when people mention they have a certain set of hobbies, or none at all. I feel people adopting hobbies is their way to relentlessly keep giving themselves a chance to be out there just enough, to be able to get a glimpse of what they're seeking. It's a bleak chance, but one, anyway. Then there's the lot of us too fearful to do anything about it. We often throw out questions to the universe, masked as a complaint. What I believe, is we always have the answers - we're just not brave enough to pen them down to ourselves, because once we do, we affirm it. And, what is direr to us than knowing, down to our bones, that which we're trying to forget.
Maybe that's why people like going to old bookstores - they're never really alone, whilst sitting flanked by pieces, that people left of themselves in those books. I can't imagine a more profound form of intimacy; to be with someone, without either of you having a clue about it.

Apart from art itself, there are a trillion things in the world that, if not resemble it, can surely make us believe in art; that can titillate us enough to go out, and pursue them. What might feel akin to everything to the next person, might be as irrelevant as a puddles during monsoons to you - but, that doesn't stop it from being art, nonetheless. Know how you constantly find people, seeming lost to the world? They're busy, looking for art. Also, the people who seem dumbfounded sometimes? For all you know, they might have discovered what must be art to them. All of us have our own version of that which is real to us. We only need to be looking for which isn't. Because, it's rare, to unearth something, and knowing it in your soul, that only a dream could be better than it.

There is a reason poetry is read in silence.
You need to be selfish to feel it all by yourself, and ache from it, and use it to align your discontinuities.

More tomorrow. Until then.

Artist: Daria Klimova

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,
A.