The hypnosis of screens has changed over the decades. I remember the charm of colours, the comfort of sound, and mostly the magic of light, as the romantic manifestation of static. A little me could easily pick something apart down to its essential elements, thus art seemed like the tangible bits of life floating over an ocean of soul. It was an outworldly experience to hypothesize themes and efforts in a certain order, and then reach down to feel them in their reality, true. Everything fell into perfect shape and place if I'd loved it, and I soon followed.
The more I grow, the more it becomes inevitable to look at my center, impossible to ignore it. I could take up anything in this world, and still feel the tug of beauty in the background. I assign heart to objects, and memory to machines, and brutal systematic structures to people. I find them all the same, if excluding the bias. I love everything that isn't myself, and it fills me with a fulfilment I can only describe as self-love. My trail to the obvious is not slow, but it diverges and goes through and around anything it encounters. The very same effect. I'd come to realize, abiding by my own wish.
Now at the end of every day I wonder what to take with me and what to leave out. Now I wonder whether I'm willing to free up space for loving in favour for living, and whether the limits of memory and reality will force me to.
I, at the very end, am simply another victim of nostalgia? Perhaps even made of it. What I am carrying with me, I do not know if dead or alive. What I wish to broadcast back into the world, as thanks for how it was given to me, will it endure as I make the trip?
I, at the very end, can be reduced to this one good thing.
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