The Wings of Time

When I was a little boy I wanted to be a poet. I would often take refuge in words as if they were magic islands that could protect me from the chaotic outer world. Though blessed with parents who did their best to love me despite their own unique traumas, it was words that raised and comforted me the most. They were there when nobody else was.

The journey of a writer often mirrors the journey of life itself, marked by profound changes in perspective, style, and understanding. One's early work can serve as a time capsule. And, in fact, that’s why I wrote my first “real” poem; it was a message to my future self.

Not only would it reveal the emotions and experiences of that moment, but it would remind me of those key aspects of life I’d probably forget along the way.

In this hyper-rational scientific age of ours, we tend to dismiss what we write as children, but we should never forget that words are pieces of our soul, and often when we’re young we are more receptive to the great mystery of life, albeit, in a horrifying yet beautiful way (mysteries we will soon cut ourselves off from once we enter the good ol’ 9 to 5 rat race).

I have always thought the human soul is made of words; both are ethereal, both made of air, both real yet not real. That’s why it’s so difficult to show your personal writings to others… that’s your soul.

Right here, in this fake-moleskin journal, is the first “real” poem I ever wrote — a poem written to my future self when I was only 14 years old:

Whereas others would read this and notice a kind of juvenile despair, I recognize a kid who already knew too much, and that was his biggest problem.

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In the garden there is a bird,

his song stops you and makes you cry:

* I did a lot of crying back then.

“I know why you’re afraid of death.

* The fear of death, in one way or another, hits everyone during their early teens.

I know why you have no real friends.

* I still don't have too many friends, but that's what pets are for!

I know why you’re chasing success.

* I was not chasing success at this time which makes this a strange line.

I know why you’re addicted to stress."

— Why? You finally ask.

“Because, your society has clipped your wings.”

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The poem itself is extremely simple yet it packs a sophisticated existential message.

Not only was I very lonely as a teenage boy (as most teenage boys are these days with our now infamous loneliness epidemic throughout the Western world) but I also knew my future self would be lonely as well.

That is what shocked me when I reread this poem as a 30-year-old man.

This paper-bound time capsule (carried on the pencil wings of an illustrated bird which is located on the photo’s righthand corner) was correct in certain aspects of its prophecy.

But, the more I analyze this poem the more I realize that I’m not just writing about my past and future self; I’m writing about the entire modern world and our complicated human predicament.

That's what my writing of today carries. It’s no longer just about me and my existential dread, it’s about all of our problems and hopes and despair and confusion.

Today, I am very much the person described in that poem (who isn’t?), but I have learned to accept my seemingly wingless condition because it is shared with so many other people just like me.

For better or worse, we’re all in this together. An image-obsessed, power-hungry “society” may have kept me down from time to time, but it never clipped my wings.

My style in writing now mirrors my lifestyle; still stressed, still lonely, still chasing the dream of becoming a successful artist, but these days I breathe deeply and catch myself when I become too pessimistic, too driven by an unreal ego-ideal. I realize that I don’t have to play the same game that everyone else is playing and that no amount of ego-points in the form of money or praise can satiate the hunger for what we really need: connection. A deep connection to others, to nature, and to our true selves.

The themes and concepts of my contemporary writing are very much informed by that supreme truth.

When we are shown the darker side of life, we have to realize that those contrasts (those yins to the yangs) are what make the sunlight all the more brilliant when we finally step back from the madness and give our lives some perspective.

Here, all forms of introspective writing act like a time machine. It takes us back to a former age when the world was still full of magic — even if monsters were lurking in the shadows.

In the end, everything comes full circle; from child to adult, from an immature writer to a more mature one. And I’m still seeking to experience the great mystery of life. Words are still the greatest comfort and the greatest gift that I have.

So, go tell the bird in the garden that everything’s gonna be alright.

Take flight.