Creation As Solace

You ever wake up in the morning and stare at the ceiling, wondering what is the point of this life? Sure, the coffee and the kiss on the forehead and the laughters of your loved ones is great and all, but isn't it all just a bit too absurd?

And then you recall that one poem you wrote a few years ago : ''How many days will I truly remember when, moments before death I contemplate and reflect, on a life half-lived, spent almost awake?''

These words fill you with hope, curiously enough, and you reflect on art, on creativity, on salvation. On these very writings that will remain, while you yourself won't. All that will remain of you, inevitably, are these words on the pages, these ideas.

Imagine a wild beast, perfectly content in its prowling, feasting on the apple of life, until the beast gazes up to the sky, to the distant orange cloudy sky, and realize it is stuck in a chasm, completely surrounded by tall stone walls. No longer free and careless, the wild beast panics and attempts to climb out, out from down there, but it can't, no matter how hard it tries. And the beast come to realize that despite its dream of escaping, it will die down there.

And so you face the wall and you slash it, you scratch it with your fangs, years after years, bloodied in red and overwhelmed by dread. The markings on the wall grows in size and become undoubtable proof that indeed, the wild beast existed, it left a mark on this indifferent world.

And gazing up once more to all that is sublime and beautiful, you come to the conclusion that the struggle and the despair overwhelming you is bliss; for only creatures such as yourself, faced with the truth of reality, care enough to even labour themselves on such a task, of immortalizing the soul, of leaving a trace of itself-

What I mean by this silly story is a bit macabre : I see writing as a way to cope with my mortality, with the absurd. What is the point of this life, these innumerable days of sleep, of daily desires, of going through the motions, if nothing remains.. What do I know, really, of my own great-grandfather, except his name passed down through time and fortune? His whole life, his experiences, his love, his hate too, vanished, mere lies of a dead body.

What joy, what bliss would I feel if I had the written words of those I care about, to go back to them in times of need. My dear grandmother, gone forever. All that remains of her, are these fleeting memories that will soon be erased, that could disapear at this very instant for all I know.

Death after all is at the door and death does not knock.

So what comforts me, what convinces me that this life may be worthwhile is this. These tiny markings on paper, that only mean anything if I wrote them and if another reads them. There is nothing more grounded in the present than these words, exalted instances of my mind. Fountain of ideas, undeniable proof that I do exist, that I did exist...

Entertain me some more as I elaborate awkwardly;

Isn't art simpy the cry of the soul? Pouring one's mind outward to the world, for all to see, the fruit of one's efforts. The undeniable expression of the self... The sculpture, the painting, the music, the words. All given form, all materialized from one's ideas, one's creativity, enduring forever more.

Despite how absurd this life is, how meaningless and forgettable most of our days are, I know my writings will remain. My poems, my short stories, my novels... All of them, mine! As mine as my children would be, as much a part of me as my thoughts at this very moment! For that is what writing truly is, recorded instances of the mind, of consciousness.

Is there anything more beautiful than glimpsing at someone's ideas of the world through their creation? Seeing, hearing, feeling, reading their outlook on this crazy world we all share.

My writings may be but mere scribblings on paper, yet the act of creation fills me with hope. Of something remaining after I am gone. Something so much more than our daily nonsensical lives, proof, yes undeniable proof that I exist, that I did exist!

And not only did I exist, I went to the trouble of leaving behind my ideas, my impressions, pieces of my mind, there on the pages, for any to read, be they strangers or lovers, the very best of friends or family, something to hold, something to know, something real!

For what remains, really, of our whole lives, once the curtain of life falls? Nothing, but our memories, going down the drain. Nothing, but the dread of death. Nothing, but a void engulfing all, except perhaps the certainty that no matter what, the wild beast left a piece of itself out there, left its ideas, its art; the potential to inspire, to make the tiniest difference in the world, hopefully enough to give meaning to any other struggling creature down here in the chasm that is our lives.

How bittersweet is it, that only your creativity, your creations, your art remains, while its creator, yourself, wither away and fades. A sort of distillation, sublimation of our existance, idealized.

Creation as solace.

As I wrote, in that one poem : ''As my many days, I myself will inevitably sink deeper, in the oblivion of time''