YOU NAME IT

A BRIEF INTRODUCTION

They say it's always enormously difficult taking the first steps towards creating something. The dilly-dallying of unsure feet right outside the gate of infinite possibilities, paralyzed by the sheer amount of it all. Creation is an art, to stare at the blank canvas of word.exe one minute and have a legacy the other minute. And it's so easy to not step through the gate at all because the big shadow of not making something that's great with a capital G, something great as unequivocal proof of your self-worth, the fear of not amounting to what is expected and what should be looms over us all even itself not sure as to why it's there.

Perfection, some would argue, can be described as the phenomenon achieved when we mix interests and skills together with a bit of endurance...maybe hope, and a whole lot of luck.

There are times when one feels truly lost, but then the handy option known as "Instincts" is activated. Though one can't help but wonder, is this 'The way"?

Mankind loves to have their mysteries and mental cluster fucks answered, but are satisfied with the poorest of explanations come their way. Or is this just normal human behavior? To satisfy and comfort itself as a defense mechanism? You can find examples of it in your day to day life.

And maybe most impotantly of them all, are we thinking beings first and emotional ones second, or vice versa?

And now I didn't mean to ask these many questions right out the gate, but you can get really lost contemplating life, thinking about the true meaning of subjects that supposedly govern our lives.

Makes you question absolutely everything, even the simplest of questions. Like what is really the difference between bravery and making a stupid decision but the fortune that decides the outcome? What is the true origin of the universe because even if bigbang is a fact and it truly was the beginning of everything, it can't have come out of nowhere so there must've been something precedeing it. But what preceded that? Or when you get freaked out on a Friday night, in the middle of a make out session by a tiny benign spider, and you demand your boyfriend to kill it instantly, how's that different from taking the lives of our so beloved pets? Is the value we imbue the animals' lives with just a product of social constructs or some can argue that dogs are innately more important than spiders because they are somehow more aware and conscious?

Though It's somewhat easy to ask these questions, hell I could've asked 20 more if I kept at It, the challenge arises when you try to answer these questions, they elude you at every turn.

And when you can't answer these questions you just feel as if a divine monster is choking you with its gigantic hands, smothering the clarity out of you and you feel so desperate for answers yet remain ever-defeated in trying to reach any, that you rather opt out and concern yourself with unimportant nonsense. If not for anything else, we are at the very least incredibly lucky that we can.

But does this make me an artist? Putting my pen on the sheet and letting it run across the paper without any regard for rhyme or reason? Does this qualify as art nowadays?

Did I create this, or was I born with it? Have I had a choice in this or has it just been the product of gears of destiny churning indifferent to me or my supposed free will?

Sometimes I start to think about weird stuff, it feels like I enter another dimension, I wonder about things that are a 100 percent certainty for others, sometimes the world is as vague for me as it is clear for others.

Feels like I'm on a puppet show dancing maniaclly and senselessly, moving about out of my own accord, controlled by the strings attached to me as sadistic being moves them about clearly exulted by my angst. How can it be anything but him hating me, to watch me ache in this circle of thoughts of mine but still holding to my strings just enough that in the depths of my mind I subconsciously think that there might be a point to all this. Then he suddenly wanders off and lets go of me (Maybe he has matters to attend to, those heavenly virgins don't appear out of nowhere after all, there needs to be a procurer. But who am I to judge?) and I fall to the ground and lose hope and look towards the genral direction of my bedroom's window, not at the the window itself but rather through it, not to appreciate the beautiful mewoing cats outside, but to mentally calculate whether the height would be enough to grant me a painless death or leave me a cripple. But the teasing fuck that he is, just comes back at the right moment, right before I take the leap and picks me up and indulges me in this great mess, and I gain hope again. Well what can you do about it?

Have you ever gone on a rage trying to impress the people around you, and a second after that sudden outburst of urge for admiration, you've withdrawn yourself from the public, scared of the imminent disclosure of the ugliness inside of you? Your goal being "endless efforts of maintaining a decent enough impression on others".

Or is it just me?!