Keep Art Alive :: Photography by Giorgia Pallaro
“You try to hide between the lines,
of a story never told,
But I’ve seen you run away.”
I find myself often pondering why the hardest person to ever get to know is ourselves. Why should it be that way? We live and breathe within the walls of our skin and bones, breathe through our own lungs, dream from our own psyches, think with our own brain; there are no thoughts that go unnoticed, no secrete left to tell ourselves – or, are there?
Maybe we tell ourselves the biggest lies of all. Perhaps we swallow our thoughts up before we even have the opportunity to acknowledge them. Is it possible that we self-censor so well, that even we don’t see what has been edited out? Or, is it per chance that we are the last to know what we want. If the latter is the truth, why?
I strive to know who I am, though honestly I am find myself lost amid the quest. I want to know more than I do. I want to shake hands with myself and say “okay, yes, I understand”. Should it not be that easy?
If only it were.
Instead, I find myself struggling, even about the simple, mundane things, that make up who I am. I have a legacy behind me of projecting everyone’s needs in front of my own, on a big screen, with Dolby stereo and 3D visuals, the whole home theater set-up. From these projections I have followed the paths of others more often than I care to admit. Sometimes I have found myself wondering if I would even recognize what my wants and needs looked like.
They are coming in to focus now, clearer each day, but there is still so much lost in the blur, and the rolling movie credits that we all tend to ignore.
I look to all around me for help on this self-seeking quest: my writing (like this right now), music, dreams, silent moments when I cannot not listen to myself, and still I come back confused. Nearing forty-five years alive, and I’m still wondering, pondering, questioning everything. I still wake up with that wonder spinning circles around my head, and maybe that’s okay. Just maybe, that is how living is meant to be.
It’s just, some days, days like today, I get tired of the confusion and the questions. I hear this voice inside of me, telling me to change direction, to shake things up, to follow my bliss, and yet, there are those other voices, some external, some internal, some just scripts I still hold tightly to, that tell me stay stagnant, keep juggling the “keep everyone happy” balls, and be happy with what you have.
Do those unlived lives in my veins only get to breathe the air that my writing provides? Do some of my dreams belong only in the fiction I create? Am I brave enough to change my reality in hopes to be more in tune with who I really am?