You get so alone at times that it just makes sense

My favorite Bukowski book is titled, "You get so alone at times that it just makes sense." I think about this line every time I pass my book shelf. It sticks with me for atleast a few moments, sometimes even a longer amount of time. It explains so much in my life, because there have been so many times that I have felt that sense of clarity that comes with an extensive amount of loneliness, when everything just seems to make sense. In times of solitude, you evaluate your life and your problems, or sometimes your lack of problems, and wonder what exactly you have to be sad about when the world keeps rotating and you seem to be breathing in another day. You don't necessarily have to be facing an obstacle to feel sadness; it could simply be that something is missing. Isn't something always missing? We go through life leaving pieces of ourselves in sacred places that have made us happy, or with people who have given us a better understanding of the world, but there are some places and some people that we will never see again to recover those pieces. No one is entirely whole. No one is ever pefectly content. We are all missing pieces of ourselves. The inevitable fact is that you will never be completely content in your life; however, what would life be if you were not incomplete? What is life without pain or emptiness? Most of all, when you are completely alone, you think about all of the reasons why you are the only person in that room, and after so much thought and evaulation, you finally find that reason, even if it very simple and effortless, and it just makes sense.

Everything expires eventually

There are times, though they are rare, when I think I would feel the same in every environment, and in every space of land on this planet. Sometimes I think that my problems are not caused by this place, these obstacles, the mistakes or the consequences, what has been lost, or anyone whose presence is in my life, but that the problem ultimitely and indefinitely lies within myself. There are other times when I think that running away to a different country would solve everything, mend the past and smile at the future. I want to go to a place where people appreciate beauty, and where there is actually something beautiful to observe. Problems would still lie within myself, but maybe they could be mended too. I have long learned that medication is clearly not the answer to my problem. It only put a sheet over a mattress with springs sticking straight out of it. Life itself is a medication with side affects. Some people just deal with them differently. Is there an expiration date on pills? I suppose everything expires eventually, just at different times, depending on the conditions, even people.

On a different note, if you meet the person who you feel completes you, is it possible to love someone else, or is it just that we settle for people we admire to make ourselves feel less lonely? Is it possible to really love more than one person, or does true love only occur once in your life? Is it different for everyone? I think that true love is when you remember every insignificant detail of their conversations, even the punctuation and the laughter. It is when you recognize their scent on your clothing, wear it every day and never wash it. It is when even in a state of perfect common sense, you will act completely irrationally and spontaneous with them. It is when a starless sky could still seem like every constellation was revealing itself.

Pandora's box

Apparently I haven't written an entry since April of last year, which was my only entry, so I've decided to instate blogging as a new hobby, even though I am fairly certain that no one will read this. It will be a good way to not only get my thoughts out in the open, but to preserve them.

Today is Valentine's Day and I'm asking myself an infinite amount of questions inside my head.
1) Do fake flowers hold the same meaning?
2) Why was hope the only thing left inside Pandora's box? When she opened it, everything destructive slewed itself into the air, and she closed it just in time for hope to remain trapped in the box. Does that mean that there is no true hope in the air of this world, or that hope is the only thing people need to survive? It could work both ways.
3) How is it possible that the less passionate can accomplish so much more sometimes? Is it because they detach themselves from friends and family who hold them back in order to accomplish their dreams?
4) Is everyone the same person, just covered with different lies?

I was thinking about a work space, or a den, yesterday, and how some people have a room that they feel releases a sense of inspiration. I wrote something small.

You go to a room that signifies your past,
an escape to find inspiration,
but the room is not the key;
the inspiration lies within yourself.

There is a Pandora's box within us all.