Journaling - or the art of designing a perfect death
When I speak, I must first kill the source. I'm fishing by a pond in the dusk, I'm staring at dragonflies against a slowly darkening sky. I see the grey creeping up and the blues leaving in the turtles' wake. And I feel I must speak of this. How else can this beauty be witnessed? I am lonely, perhaps the loneliest creature alive at this moment. I've always been thus. And when this singular thought emerges in the dusk, on the muddy bank of a nondescript pond like this, I feel I must speak of it. And thus begins the careful death of beauty.
The gardener must tend to her flowers, for they are beautiful and beauty must be kept. Conserved for eyes that shall never see them. For noses that will not know the scent of spring when the day breaks tomorrow. With her shears and her trowel, she plays with mud and foliage to carve out a fragment of spring. And with each snip, she kills the source of this beauty. A flower just blooming. Without a concern for beauty or a profound allegory in love. It just is.
And so it is with my thoughts. I must kill them so they can live on. As words on a page. As pixels on a screen. As electronic buzz inside a giant silicon hive mind.
The child who dreamed of being an astronaut must now excuse himself at parties and sneak away to the balcony every once in a while. From the railings, he must stare at Bellatrix, Sirius, M33 and all the stuff of his dreams. And he must sigh. He must breathe the aftermath of his charred dreams into the night so little Rohan can keep flying. Little Rohan must reach the wild corners of the universe, and his dreams must be sacrificed at the balconies of this grand party called life.
He must speak. He must sing. He must revel in the dance of death.
He must type words into a "journal" and snuff the life out of his lived reality. For somebody else to read, and keep the wind blowing.