It's hard trying to hold on to that beautiful warmth I felt whilst I was away with so many amazing and colourful people. With their help I found and saw my true self for the first time and was able to relax and feel free for the first time in a long time. But being back at home the old reminders of the dark self are there...
I've changed, I know I've changed. As the darkness tries to work its way back in, I know I feel different this time, it feels different. The darkness is trying its best to take over everything, its in my arms, my legs, my stomach, but one thing it can't do is snuff out the bright light that's in my chest, my heart.
I know its not going to be easy. I know it'll be a while yet before I am free, and even then a spark will remain in the background in the form of doubts that everyone has. But now I have the tools to gently fight it, in the form of glistening hope, beautiful words and purifying light, gifts from great people, great friends. I know with these that I can learn to love and accept myself at last.
Showing posts with label colours. Show all posts
Showing posts with label colours. Show all posts
Friday, 30 August 2013
Monday, 13 February 2012
The Essence of Beauty
I keep thinking about all the things that I find beautiful in life, from pictures, to music, to words, to ideas, to memories, to people... But, what is beauty? Does it even actually exist? Or is it just something that we imagine?
Everyone has the own unique interpretation on beauty; what is pleasing to one could be absolutely abhorrent to another. It's not surprising that there is always such a debate on what type of bodies are beautiful, etc. (which I always find annoying, as I personally believe that inner beauty is far more important). I wrote not that long ago about being fickle, but the truth is the whole nature of humanity is fickle; everyone is fickle to some degree or another!
And then comes another question: is beauty actually important? Well yes, of course it is, to some degree. I have noticed how people react to certain colours, whether they make you happy, sad, angry, etc. This means that people will have a preference for certain colours within a room, so they will only paint the rooms in their house in pleasing colours, essentially mimicking their own interpretation of beauty. So, surrounding ourselves with things that we deem beautiful is one step towards our own personal happiness. This seems to work as well for musical preference, too, how that perfect song can just fill you with so much joy and how being in a room with music you dislike can make you feel incredibly miserable.
Which brings me onto my interpretation of beauty and what I find beautiful, and I would describe it as... A multitude of colours. I've mentioned this part before, but... For me, everything in life is colourful. I not only see physical colours but colours within sounds, music, words, people... People are amazingly colourful with their unique characters! So how can people possibly define a person's beauty just based on what they look like?! I look at someone and I can describe them, usually, with one to two major colours and sometimes a couple of minor ones. It can be great fun at times, to look at someone like that, as then it can enable me to write things about them, if I should wish to!
But, anyway - back to beauty itself.
It seems to me we get hounded with the media's interpretation of beauty so often we forget what we personally find beautiful. Through the clones and drones who just want to look like their peers, to all the negative comments of what you can't be according to popular thought. Of course, there will always be crossovers of ideas, no matter how unique our individual ideas are. But I, personally, am more inclined to indulge in my own personal sense of beauty and what I enjoy, ignoring popular fashions, partly because I know I cannot ever hope to achieve a sense of happiness any other way.
Everyone has the own unique interpretation on beauty; what is pleasing to one could be absolutely abhorrent to another. It's not surprising that there is always such a debate on what type of bodies are beautiful, etc. (which I always find annoying, as I personally believe that inner beauty is far more important). I wrote not that long ago about being fickle, but the truth is the whole nature of humanity is fickle; everyone is fickle to some degree or another!
And then comes another question: is beauty actually important? Well yes, of course it is, to some degree. I have noticed how people react to certain colours, whether they make you happy, sad, angry, etc. This means that people will have a preference for certain colours within a room, so they will only paint the rooms in their house in pleasing colours, essentially mimicking their own interpretation of beauty. So, surrounding ourselves with things that we deem beautiful is one step towards our own personal happiness. This seems to work as well for musical preference, too, how that perfect song can just fill you with so much joy and how being in a room with music you dislike can make you feel incredibly miserable.
Which brings me onto my interpretation of beauty and what I find beautiful, and I would describe it as... A multitude of colours. I've mentioned this part before, but... For me, everything in life is colourful. I not only see physical colours but colours within sounds, music, words, people... People are amazingly colourful with their unique characters! So how can people possibly define a person's beauty just based on what they look like?! I look at someone and I can describe them, usually, with one to two major colours and sometimes a couple of minor ones. It can be great fun at times, to look at someone like that, as then it can enable me to write things about them, if I should wish to!
But, anyway - back to beauty itself.
It seems to me we get hounded with the media's interpretation of beauty so often we forget what we personally find beautiful. Through the clones and drones who just want to look like their peers, to all the negative comments of what you can't be according to popular thought. Of course, there will always be crossovers of ideas, no matter how unique our individual ideas are. But I, personally, am more inclined to indulge in my own personal sense of beauty and what I enjoy, ignoring popular fashions, partly because I know I cannot ever hope to achieve a sense of happiness any other way.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
What Takes us Forward?
I'm a terrible hobbyist, always jumping from one thing to the next, never quite able to sit still (which is one reason I haven't written anything here for over a week). Yes, it's good in a way as it means I'm never bored (well, not often), but, at the same time, I rarely finish things! Yet there is definitely one constant...
I've always been like that. I just love doing creative things, things with colour, whether it be specifically drawing or painting, playing or writing music, or writing poems or stories. You see, I don't see colours only in their physical, visible form, but I also hear colours in music and see colours in words. And also in people.
Some days, on my depressive days, I am only able to see grey drabness. But even then, within all those layers of grey, there's usually a glint of colour somewhere, something that can give me hope and help me make it through. On my exceptionally good days, there are colours everywhere, overwhelming me, my body absorbing them like water or light, just letting it all flow through me. It's like I have little need for food or water and could just live off of the colours themselves.
I have actually written before about how I am inspired by people, how I see the colours within them. Well, this also goes for places or objects too, or music. Oh dear, there are some tunes I just end up addicted to, that I can't stop playing. After I've learnt a new tune that is oh so beautiful, I do sometimes end up loving it to death, playing it until I hurt. The colours are even more intense as I create them. Or there's a song I'll listen to on my computer and I just have to play it over and over, just to keep that feeling alive. The places I can visit when I'm there, within those colours, within that frame of mind... For me, there is absolutely nothing else like it.
As for places... Sometimes some places have been so taken over by people, so destroyed in the need for building building and rebuilding, that all the emotion and beauty that was once there has been totally stripped. Buildings aren't often made with love anymore, so it leaves the places so empty, so void of life. Yet there are other places I can go and feel more alive than anything else. A beautiful lake or river, a relaxing place amongst trees, greenery, nature all around me, the life and colours bringing me to a peaceful place where I could dream the day away.
For me, the one constant thing that has kept me alive through so many terrible things that I've seen has been this colour, the things that bring me hope, the things that make me feel alive more than anything else. So many times it has been people, just giving me that little spark of confidence and push in the right direction, so I can form my own colour palette once more, designing my own space to keep me safe.
I've always been like that. I just love doing creative things, things with colour, whether it be specifically drawing or painting, playing or writing music, or writing poems or stories. You see, I don't see colours only in their physical, visible form, but I also hear colours in music and see colours in words. And also in people.
Some days, on my depressive days, I am only able to see grey drabness. But even then, within all those layers of grey, there's usually a glint of colour somewhere, something that can give me hope and help me make it through. On my exceptionally good days, there are colours everywhere, overwhelming me, my body absorbing them like water or light, just letting it all flow through me. It's like I have little need for food or water and could just live off of the colours themselves.
I have actually written before about how I am inspired by people, how I see the colours within them. Well, this also goes for places or objects too, or music. Oh dear, there are some tunes I just end up addicted to, that I can't stop playing. After I've learnt a new tune that is oh so beautiful, I do sometimes end up loving it to death, playing it until I hurt. The colours are even more intense as I create them. Or there's a song I'll listen to on my computer and I just have to play it over and over, just to keep that feeling alive. The places I can visit when I'm there, within those colours, within that frame of mind... For me, there is absolutely nothing else like it.
As for places... Sometimes some places have been so taken over by people, so destroyed in the need for building building and rebuilding, that all the emotion and beauty that was once there has been totally stripped. Buildings aren't often made with love anymore, so it leaves the places so empty, so void of life. Yet there are other places I can go and feel more alive than anything else. A beautiful lake or river, a relaxing place amongst trees, greenery, nature all around me, the life and colours bringing me to a peaceful place where I could dream the day away.
For me, the one constant thing that has kept me alive through so many terrible things that I've seen has been this colour, the things that bring me hope, the things that make me feel alive more than anything else. So many times it has been people, just giving me that little spark of confidence and push in the right direction, so I can form my own colour palette once more, designing my own space to keep me safe.
Sunday, 18 September 2011
Philosophically Speaking
The balance in my mind isn’t always an easy to thing to understand, even for me, and is even harder for other people to understand. In fact, there is an exceptionally small minority in this world that I’ve met that I believe can even begin to understand me.
It’s strange. I’ve learnt to go about my life with few expectations; the fewer the expectations you have in something, the less likely you are to be let down by it. And yet… Yet, on the other side of the coin, if I happen to meet someone who I can click with, who have traits within them that I recognise, who I believe may be one of this small percentage that could actually understand me even in a small way, then suddenly my expectations sky rocket.
The trouble is, I don’t particularly understand why that is. I guess it is, in part, something to do with the fact that I am quite aware of how few people are truly able to see beyond my layers, see who I am underneath. Meeting someone like that fills me with such a great excitement that my emotions become harder to control. I remember the times when I’ve let myself get carried away on this wave of euphoria, the times that I’ve been burnt. It means that now, whilst I enjoy the exciting rollercoaster ride that is speaking to these people, I tend to step a lot more cautiously.
Which leads me back to expectations and disappointment. The fewer the expectations you have in someone, the less likely you are to be disappointed. It appears to be one of the great pains I have to deal with in my life yet, for the most part, I just accept it nowadays as it is. The times I tried, years ago, to push past that door just left me bleeding, in much more pain than just letting it be and living with it.
Life is very intriguing, with all its colours and movement. I find people very interesting in that respect, too, with all their colours and sounds. I’ve spent my life being fascinated by colours and sounds, seeing colours in everything, tapping things and getting excited by subtle changes in sound. It might sound bizarre to say, but I see the majority of people as being quite bland; most people just go around their business, just existing but not really living. Yet there are some others, ones that I absolutely love being around, that are like vibrant colours, like coloured oils swirling within a pool of seemingly endless depth. Sometimes, when I meet these people, I just want to dive down into that pool and explore it completely, seeing all the colours as they swirl around, listening to the sounds of the water moving around me, colour and sound absorbing me completely. The fascination I have when I see just a glimpse leaves me greedily yearning for more, desperate for more of those colours to wash over me once again. And that is when I step away, not letting myself be caught up in that web once again, refusing to expose myself to all the dangers that leaving yourself open can bring. Not willing to allow myself to be carried away too far that I am burnt once again.
The thing about it is, there was a time when I confused this fascination in people, this interest for something it wasn't. I remember a time when I got so carried up in it that I absolutely convinced myself that there was more to it. I was missing something in my life at the time and believed that they were the answer. How wrong I was. How desperate I was. How regretful I was afterwards. I know the difference now, but I paid a large price for it that still haunts me to this day. It is a mistake that I watch out for, that I refuse to make again. It means that, at times, I stop and hold myself back. I hate it, as it stops me from connecting with people fully, but it's now a built-in safe guard - you can only make a mistake so many times before realising that you should change something to prevent it happening again. It allows for room for friendships to grow, without the burden of breaking them.
The most intriguing thing I’ve noticed about these people I can connect with, however, is that they all, too, see the world differently, most having lived through the dark swathes of depression or some other mental disturbance (which, usually, always seems to involve depression on one level or another). I suppose that all of us, to some degree, are affected by what could be classified as a mental illness of one level or another; if doctors were to map the world, I’m sure a box could be found for everyone. Yet, for the majority, the so-called “norm”, there generally isn’t enough disturbance to their environment to be able to call them “unhinged” in any way.
Just think about it, for a moment. Think about all the most famous and best artists, of any medium, and how many of them were considered genius or insane. To be honest I believe that to achieve full genius you have to pass through a level of insanity first; the two are not exclusive to each other. They are essentially the same thing, just viewed through different windows. Perhaps that is why modern music often is so flat and bland - there is no substance, the creative madness behind it is non existent. I bet that so many of those people who listen to truly exceptional music or appreciate truly exceptional art don't truly appreciate the suffering that the artist has gone through to create such a work. Some of them, even, would even be very critical of someone with the same condition as that of their favourite artist, therefore being critical of that artist themselves, without even realising that it is that madness that has brought them the beauty that they love so much. How many people are quick to criticise, without even a thought for the truth behind the mask, the truth behind those eyes. It makes the life of someone like Vincent van Gogh even more tragic - reviled in his life time, revered in his death. But that, I guess, is what art truly is.
In all my own insanity, in all my own sensibility, in all my own craziness. In all of it, I am the quiet mouse of an artist in the corner, squirreling away at ideas as they come to me. I am the one with the deep dark blackness that washes over me at times. I am the one that is told how brilliant they are by some, yet held at arms length by others. I keep the colourful people around, trying my best not to drive them away, finding inspiration in the light that also keeps me going. I may be one of "them", whichever label you choose to put on me at the time, but just don't forget that I am, quite simply, me. All I ask for, like so many others, is acceptance.
It’s strange. I’ve learnt to go about my life with few expectations; the fewer the expectations you have in something, the less likely you are to be let down by it. And yet… Yet, on the other side of the coin, if I happen to meet someone who I can click with, who have traits within them that I recognise, who I believe may be one of this small percentage that could actually understand me even in a small way, then suddenly my expectations sky rocket.
The trouble is, I don’t particularly understand why that is. I guess it is, in part, something to do with the fact that I am quite aware of how few people are truly able to see beyond my layers, see who I am underneath. Meeting someone like that fills me with such a great excitement that my emotions become harder to control. I remember the times when I’ve let myself get carried away on this wave of euphoria, the times that I’ve been burnt. It means that now, whilst I enjoy the exciting rollercoaster ride that is speaking to these people, I tend to step a lot more cautiously.
Which leads me back to expectations and disappointment. The fewer the expectations you have in someone, the less likely you are to be disappointed. It appears to be one of the great pains I have to deal with in my life yet, for the most part, I just accept it nowadays as it is. The times I tried, years ago, to push past that door just left me bleeding, in much more pain than just letting it be and living with it.
Life is very intriguing, with all its colours and movement. I find people very interesting in that respect, too, with all their colours and sounds. I’ve spent my life being fascinated by colours and sounds, seeing colours in everything, tapping things and getting excited by subtle changes in sound. It might sound bizarre to say, but I see the majority of people as being quite bland; most people just go around their business, just existing but not really living. Yet there are some others, ones that I absolutely love being around, that are like vibrant colours, like coloured oils swirling within a pool of seemingly endless depth. Sometimes, when I meet these people, I just want to dive down into that pool and explore it completely, seeing all the colours as they swirl around, listening to the sounds of the water moving around me, colour and sound absorbing me completely. The fascination I have when I see just a glimpse leaves me greedily yearning for more, desperate for more of those colours to wash over me once again. And that is when I step away, not letting myself be caught up in that web once again, refusing to expose myself to all the dangers that leaving yourself open can bring. Not willing to allow myself to be carried away too far that I am burnt once again.
The thing about it is, there was a time when I confused this fascination in people, this interest for something it wasn't. I remember a time when I got so carried up in it that I absolutely convinced myself that there was more to it. I was missing something in my life at the time and believed that they were the answer. How wrong I was. How desperate I was. How regretful I was afterwards. I know the difference now, but I paid a large price for it that still haunts me to this day. It is a mistake that I watch out for, that I refuse to make again. It means that, at times, I stop and hold myself back. I hate it, as it stops me from connecting with people fully, but it's now a built-in safe guard - you can only make a mistake so many times before realising that you should change something to prevent it happening again. It allows for room for friendships to grow, without the burden of breaking them.
The most intriguing thing I’ve noticed about these people I can connect with, however, is that they all, too, see the world differently, most having lived through the dark swathes of depression or some other mental disturbance (which, usually, always seems to involve depression on one level or another). I suppose that all of us, to some degree, are affected by what could be classified as a mental illness of one level or another; if doctors were to map the world, I’m sure a box could be found for everyone. Yet, for the majority, the so-called “norm”, there generally isn’t enough disturbance to their environment to be able to call them “unhinged” in any way.
Just think about it, for a moment. Think about all the most famous and best artists, of any medium, and how many of them were considered genius or insane. To be honest I believe that to achieve full genius you have to pass through a level of insanity first; the two are not exclusive to each other. They are essentially the same thing, just viewed through different windows. Perhaps that is why modern music often is so flat and bland - there is no substance, the creative madness behind it is non existent. I bet that so many of those people who listen to truly exceptional music or appreciate truly exceptional art don't truly appreciate the suffering that the artist has gone through to create such a work. Some of them, even, would even be very critical of someone with the same condition as that of their favourite artist, therefore being critical of that artist themselves, without even realising that it is that madness that has brought them the beauty that they love so much. How many people are quick to criticise, without even a thought for the truth behind the mask, the truth behind those eyes. It makes the life of someone like Vincent van Gogh even more tragic - reviled in his life time, revered in his death. But that, I guess, is what art truly is.
In all my own insanity, in all my own sensibility, in all my own craziness. In all of it, I am the quiet mouse of an artist in the corner, squirreling away at ideas as they come to me. I am the one with the deep dark blackness that washes over me at times. I am the one that is told how brilliant they are by some, yet held at arms length by others. I keep the colourful people around, trying my best not to drive them away, finding inspiration in the light that also keeps me going. I may be one of "them", whichever label you choose to put on me at the time, but just don't forget that I am, quite simply, me. All I ask for, like so many others, is acceptance.
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