There are several testaments we hold true to ourselves. Pieces of our essence and being that feel so indicative of who we are and what we stand for. Like our favorite bands and genres or social issues that are of importance to us. But there is also the more abstract truths, which are harder to articulate. Being a creator, actively creating, it takes bits and pieces of who we are and channels it into something material, something our eyes can focus on and make sense of. Through that we take the things that are trickier to express and make it easy.
I started this blog as a means to express myself in a way I wasn’t accustomed to. I’m used to sharing things I make, but they have never been solely text based. I have always treated the words I have written as if they would never leave the pages they were composed on, like words that reside in a diary. I needed something more than just crafting an art history paper or working on written pieces for others. Those satisfied me but weren’t a catalyst for my happiness. I craved an outlet where I could voice my inner monologue and share sentiments that I knew weren’t exclusive to me. I was stricken by my fear of narcissism, irrelevance and vulnerability. Ultimately, I got over that, and that is how The Pitstop came to be. I want this to be a labor of love, proof of commitment (which now feels more like an exercise), and a place to exist, where my thoughts are present for anyone who is listening.
WHATS BEEN ON MY MIND RECENTLY
I’ve been thinking a lot about the meaning of time and its permeance. Whether or not this all-consuming concept is a means to an end or nothing more than a construct. Where the night meets the day and the day trickles into the night, what does time even mean. A week that consists of seven days feels like it’s just one. There is no end and no beginning, I feel restless —as if I never want to sleep again. For some reason, the stillness of the night comforts me and I feel revitalized by the solitude of everyone’s absence. I think about the instants where my head meets my pillow for the first time and that very second someone else’s comes up from theirs.
The irony behind days losing their meaning, where they are almost insignificant and obsolete only lingers and permeates during times of detachment. This doesn’t eradicate its existence all together, days persist, but are not as stressed as they were during our (seemingly) normal lives. I think a lot about how deadlines and scheduled facetime dates are the only thing that keep me on track, throw my birth control on that list too (even though I skip days and get ahead of others — it’s not doing a great job). But there is a sense of disconnect, that could be from the drastic isolation from others, that is now part of waking life. Even what we perceived as fruitful, may now seem rotten. Taking the opportunities that come with having nowhere to go and nowhere to be, but what does that leave us with? An inability to get away from ourselves? Something we desperately try to do. Recently, I stopped trying to escape the reality of who and what I am. Even then, there are moments where I try to run through the door. Still, learning to live with myself, trading distractions for self-acceptance.
There are instants of beautiful clarity and creation, where I feel proactive and flourishing. And others of mind-numbing nothingness where existing feels like a chore. I read that sentence and feel like a brat. Complaining about how grueling it can be when I’m one of the lucky ones.
I think back at the moments that I probably took for granted, no matter how much I try to convince myself that I didn’t, that I was present. In the company of those who I adore time fails to exist, but, there’s always a moment, a moment where I think about how fleeting time is. Despite feeling infinite, the magical fragment [of time] I share with those I love will soon be over and will be archived in my mind. I’m overwhelmed with the knowledge that things end. And that’s romanticized to a certain degree, but it breaks my heart, nonetheless. I don’t want things to end because I’m worried that they will never return. In times of stillness I rejoice, and I soak in every fiber of love and emotion that I feel in the presence of my loved ones. I hold on so tight because maybe if I do the clock will stop and we will indefinitely stay in this wrinkle of time. I miss that feeling of holding on to someone, the gratitude intertwined with the anxiety towards the temporary and fleeting experience of an embrace. We base our lives on the orbit of time. During (re)birth and death, it is all at the hand of the clock.