Almost four years ago, a very wise man told me and a handful of other gaping, insecure and quirky teens that our mind is similar in structure to a gallery of caves, and that our purpose should be to dig wisely through them, so as not to destroy its architectonic balance, or the precious minerals it holds, but to be able to enrich the former, discover the latter, and dig tunnels from one chamber to the other.
My imagination is distinctly arid and flat most of the time, but there are little random nudges, here and there, that spark something up. And then the clouds crash and roar, and then thunder, and then lightning, and floods and fire. Instead, perhaps, of properly focusing on the complexities of his metaphor, my brain took it quite literally and pictured this entire landscape in a way I can only wish to describe. I imagined a dark and humid cave, of monumental proportions, with minute, strangely gothic, embellishments on its walls. An obligatory crack in the ceiling, through which a very pale light falls in ripples to the ground, like the beams which reach the ocean floor, reflecting sometimes on the lustrous surface of some exquisite crystals. And a small waterfall, I guess; dark purple. Amidst all this, working arduously day and night, a thin and featureless silhouette – more an archeologist than a mineworker. All this (though much more beautiful, and much more apotheotic) not as my mind, or the mind of the man who’d come up with this idea, but the mind, and spirituality, of every man. And ever since, at the back of my mind, I hold this image and abstractly impart it unto everyone I meet, and their dreams and their hearts.
I don’t like myself. I really don’t. It takes a great deal of will and ambition (and pills) to cope with that. But I love this little world that’s somehow adjacent to my personality, the sum of the books I’ve read, the films I’ve watched, the music I’ve heard and played, the people I’ve met, the people I’ve loved, the people I’ve (truly) spoken to, the rivers and forests and mountain crests and seas, the lips and eyes and tombs and sighs. This, and all its potentials, its futures, its mights, which linger in the cracks of the hard stone wall, waiting to bloom into exotic flowers. Two weeks, and then we run away.