Yesterday, I finally realized it, that I had little passion left for the slow and steady march of minutes through my life. And I finally let myself be broken into, as if the sudden mass of the world had fallen upon the clear shell protecting me and punctured a spidery crack through which fresh air came hissing in. On my way to the Art Institute I felt that familiar yearning for the vaulted rooms and passageways. I had forgotten how to see colors, even the usual scenes of beauty had lost their intensity and merely drifted across my vision like watery reflections on a river. In my mind, the colors of paintings seemed brighter and more real than those around me.
I felt it then - the strange sensation of longing and liberation. The magnolia trees are blossoming, and I suddenly experienced an awareness of spring's fullest upswing with trees shooting out their most brilliant new greens. In those moments too, it entered my mind that I had forgotten why I write, and what skill I believe I contribute to this world. You see, I believe in this world - I believe in the mass of humanity that occupies it, and that that humanity is the truth as I know it in its greatest purity. I write to show others that truth, I want to never let go of that vision - I believe it drives me even when I have forgotten it. That's what I had lost track of - the fact that I live here not for myself but to see the world in a way that no one else can, and to give it as my gift to the truth. We might all view the world then in some unified way, and at least exist together in some kind of certainty.
I walked the halls of the Art Institute, I sat and sketched in the garden, I went to Moonstruck and drank hot chocolate and fell in love with the world so many times over. I walked with my heart constantly in my throat, taken aback by the sudden colors of tourists and Chicagoans out in the bright spring air, and the light falling on them a million times over and bringing every pigment to me.
Today I do not feel drowsy, even though the day is warm and sweet. In tune with the world as it moves, I watch the tumble of clouds above me, think of other skies I have seen, and feel them knit together. Lately I look in the mirror and my reflection means less. I take few pains to arrange it, relying as much on touch or movement in the mornings. That spot on the periphery of things calls to me and I stalk the edges. I sleep long and often. I fall over and over again for the same people who I imagine exist without truly understanding them...
Dinner time soon. My curtains move in the breeze, stirred by a gentle uncertain hand. I feel unconcentrated somehow, my essays do not write themselves, I fall asleep between homework assignments, but now when I wake - it's to a world that somehow seems more solid and sure of itself. To float on this feeling is not all bad, to finally let go of other things I thought were important but that I did not care for. Now is the time to recognize and understand this. Now, while I am still awake.