Only genuine narcissists write memoirs... I have long wished to have a more creative and fantastic imagination. My whole life I have read books and watched movies that transported me into a world entirely foreign to my analytic personality. I would often wonder how people could come up with these alternate worlds, tangential universes, and dues ex machinas’. Or those characters—the ones you come to love and feel and taste—that are even more complex than yourself. When you fall in love with a character, you know the moment, and you find yourself inhabiting their life-world, there is an instance when you are transformed and absorbed into their ephemeral existence. You are taken away—thrown—astrally projected. I have never been good at creating such phantasms. My brain can enjoy a good fiction, but never seemed to be able to construct them. I do know, however, that I am good at one thing: narcissism. I don’t mean that I am Dorian Gray or Dagne Taggart, and I suppose that most of us enjoy our reflections a bit too much, but I cannot help but ponder my confusing, and often scattered, experiences. I have a desire to put the puzzle together. To find a meaningful narrative that weaves together my disparate encounters. To have a sense of my Gestalt. There is a space—which is rather difficult to describe—that consists of knowing the futility and tragedy of human endeavors, and yet being compelled to some brighter, and more colorful future. It’s knowing the limits of your words, and the strength of philosophical deconstruction, and somehow still yearning and searching for significance. And I know the pieces don’t fit, that there are cracks in the universe, and that life is not something to be Christmas wrapped. I refuse, however, to be subdued by this facet of existence. As Camus might say, standing in the face of absurdity is the greatest revolt.
Posted on: Sat, 20 Sep 2014 23:23:11 +0000
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