Life in the Lost and Found: November 2009

It was not that long ago that I finally found my way out of the Land of Writer's Block, after wandering in it for what most assuredly felt like an eternity. Now I have found myself somewhere ironically overwhelming; The Land of Too Much to Write About.

At this point for me, it is all in the details. I walk down the streets of Swansea, and I want to somehow capture every minute detail of life. I know that I will always take home the panoramic picture of my time here, but I want more. I want to be able to recall the angle of the lipstick-stained cigarette I saw dangling from a young girl's mouth yesterday, as she causally leaned against a shop window. She owned that moment, and as she smiled it was as if she had had to cram all her worldly knowledge behind her teeth and hold it there, trying not to choke on it. As if I would abhor the things she knew, and she would take some considerable amount of pride in terrifying me with the simple flicker of her parted mouth.

I should be writing about my time in Italy, but when I attempt to put it to paper all I can conger are glimpses of smiling bearded faces or the sensation I felt when I allowed my pistachio gellato to slowly melt on my tongue, tumbling down the back of my throat as if each bite were the last sustenance I would ever be allowed to acquire.

As a writer, I am feeling myself evolve. I am not all too sure whether this evolutionary process is a welcomed change or not, but I have at least reached a point where it is not enough to simply produce a work for production's sake. I am forever grasping at the coattails of inspiration, wanting to wrap my fingers around an actual, meaningful, concept before I begin.

In fact, this is not only an evolution that I have felt creatively. I am molting in every facet of life. I can hardly recognize the person I was at this time last year.
Last year, I was writing:

" I had spent this year wishing that I was the kind of person who did things. Not even anything in particular, just things in general. I wanted to be that person who went to the gym every day. I wanted to be that person who cared about the environment. I wanted to be that person who was confident and directed."

I look at that and know I have made progress. I am now that kind of person who travels the world. I am a feminist. I am a vegetarian. I am confident, with a life full of options and direction.

I can remember that feeling of longing and discontent, but not the exact date it stopped lingering. I suppose, one day, I woke up as the person I had always wanted to be. Not perfect, not even close, but in a more broad sense the person I had dreamt of being as I began life on my own.

That person was formed out of undocumented, seemingly unrelated details. Each simple choice I have made, however mundane, has brought me to the crest of my great adventure. Now realizing this, I ache to chronicle each piece of the puzzle so as to look back later at how everything fit so perfectly together. Alas, I cannot be an archivist of my own existence, at least not fully. It is as if I must choose to either live or remember.

Just as my finite understanding will tilt and distort my writing, my own memory will blur fragile lines, and fail to recall the coveted details of my experiences. I suppose it only makes those distinct reflections, those that turn as if from camera reels, that much more invaluable. It also creates a rare responsibility for me as a writer. I am now burdened with the remarkably painful task of capturing ever fleeting seconds, so that they may be felt a second time. I must create memories and make them infinite. It is all in the details for me at this point, because up to now, I did not realize that that was where the big picture was hidden.