a disconnected thought

I've asked myself why good things happen when they do, to the people who they do. I've asked about the bad things that happen to decent people. It's not that I'm looking for some place to lay blame on, just searching for understanding of the rules of the game- how it all works. I've rarely stopped to think of myself being that source, in my own life and in the life of others. Happiness I'm sorry. I didn't treat you right. Some one can do everything right, keep all the rules, and be on the good side of things, and still be victim to some one else's selfish behavior. Both sides are awful to be on. I've been the victim, and I've been the victimizer. I've kicked myself for both, for years. I still don't forgive myself for what I've done. I don't really expect forgiveness from you. But maybe now that I'm on the decent side of things I can expect some sort of balance in the game. At least for a while.
Everything I write is for some one. I'd be surprised if the people I'm writing to ever read this blog- and I know that I can never make up for things here. My intent for this blog has always been to express things freely, in ways that might allow the mind of it's reader to glimpse inside mine. I know I have a different way of seeing things than others. That's not just a way of explaining away my differences; I really don't live in the same world. My world starts out like yours, with a sunrise, a day- a night, things in between; people come and go, experiences, expressions, pain, and happiness. . . But your world is composed like a film, whereas mine is like a painting from a masters hands. You have dozens of hands crafting, editing, reviewing what goes where and how. They see it in sections big and small, and as one complete work from start to finish. And in the end, there are few who get credited or criticized for the journey. A film is constructed to tell a near complete story, with mystery where it needs it, and answers when they are called for- all to keep the viewer engrossed in the journey from beginning to end. That is your world.
My world is not so complete. Answers can't be expected when they're needed, mysteries are not so intriguing as they are frustrating; and when the lights come up and the critics begin in, there is only one who bares the harsh conflicts of reality. Because the Master painter needs not explain himself, there are often more questions that arise from his work than there are answers given. His image is intentionally obscure. His secrets are cryptic and vague. Faces are often implied, and actions are cut as if from stone, yet fluid. Sharpened edges distract the eye, as clear lines are often the enemy of his grand illusion. His gift is not of story telling. Instead the Master captures life through a filter of his own design. It is often sad without appearing so, but the image depresses you, and so you know it is sad. It's also playful and cheery at times, with a warmth that rivals any heart. It is the cold complacent gesture of colors that make up his scenery, with a symbol here and there for your relation, with subtle and often incomplete features. If you look you will see everything intended. If you look again, you might begin to see what's missing. Looking a third time you may not even see the image anymore; instead you will begin to obsess over the things not there that you could swear had been. In a long steady fourth look, you may begin to see through the Master's eyes. Because this world contradicts your own, the unsettling feeling that you get from a woman smiling will send you into frustrational fits without knowing why. And if you care to come back to look again, for a fifth time, you might begin to understand that the woman smiling, with all her warmth and gleam in her eyes is in fact, not happy at all- but broken hearted and distraught. She is worth a sixth look, if you dare. But perhaps you'd rather focus on another portion of the painting. One less piercing, or disturbing. The harmless sway of a field catches your eye. A golden field caught up in a soft breeze has little to hide. It as only the weeds to bother it, and is home to many small and harmless creatures. It is also home to a small shack you never noticed before. It's off in the distance some; you never would have thought it would be a part of the story. But there you go again, thinking about the story. The problem with stories is that they are all linear, like a movie. ;) But a painting isn't linear. And neither is life. Now that you've discovered the painting in 3 dimensions, you are distracted away from the little shack, and begin to see all manor of things you never did before. There are flocks of black birds in the field- those tiny little blips behind the now deeply saddened woman. Straining your imagination, your eyes, and your will power, you begin to see a horizon you didn't notice before. A tiny blip again; perhaps a man. He could live in that shack. He is little more than an elongated splatter on the canvas; and yet so much more. The sadness of the woman is now completely lost in this little black dot. You smile. You've found some one that didn't exist before you imagined him. Look back at that woman now. Is she sad, or complacent?