finishing a project is a fulfilling summation. ideas, thoughts, questions, and extensions all fall into a compartmentalization as the slow fading process begins. we cannot dwell on a single work our entire lives; yearning to see and know more, our curiosity pulls us forward while our static products remain cemented in time.
i closed a book today, done with the story it provided. placing it on my shelf, i flipped back through all the memories of sitting down, paper in my hands, to read it. the complex, animated word choice of All The Light We Cannot See took me close to a year to get through. i’m not positive why it lapsed such a distance, but the scope unveiled a revelating phenomenon.
since the first words of the novel sucked me in, i’ve grown tremendously. with each break and corresponding return, my approach to reading and processing this masterpiece must have changed. it pushes me to wonder if i started reading it over again, would the initial chapter also be different? what does it mean to continuously age while the creations we live with degrade?
similar to cars, electronics, and televisions, the years put wear and tear onto literary collections. but through this aging, the words develop and grow in significance. because we are unable to travel back in time, records like these offer glimpses of specific moments or periods in their respective centuries. this blog, too, will undergo this transformation. but not all outputs of creativity win awards.
what better way to anchor myself to reality than a paperback? seconds melt off their clock hands and climates infuse with body temperature as an ingrained motivation tweaks my fingers to pull trees right to left. when absorbed with fascination, there’s no worry about the future or the past. instead, the main preoccupation is inside the pages.
i’ve associated obsessing over a book as a form of escape comparable to binge-watching television series. but this completion isn’t necessarily sorted in the same stacks as that lunge for safety. when days morph to weeks to years, a fixated, unmanipulated source of text embodies an alternative type of therapy. it’s not quite a vacation, but more like a personal hideout or reset button. it’s the trunk i tie my rope to before veering out into a world full of unknowns. no matter the turbulence, this story was the lighted, smoothly paved asphalt awaiting my landing.
are there other rocks out there sturdy enough to endure the beating of forward motion? music is forever adapting and relating to newer music, yet a favorite album may be promoted to a lateral rank. painting and drawing too would be a worthy placeholder. it’s as if art was discovered as a release for present tension, and then a home base for any explorer daring enough to look further past it.
there is a newfound significance to the synthesis of thought and action. one deposit is a world within worlds within our world; the creation is its own, yet governed under skies of other fraternal works, which in turn live beneath the atmosphere of brain waves we all share. it’s the focal point for a reckoning of stability.
if you’re past internalizing this wonder, then i’m glad to be joining you.
if this sparked a tsunami within you, like it did within me, we’re certainly fortunate to now share a secret as axis-toppling as this one.
– D K T