All the Things We Inherit
It’s funny, the things I seem to be finding.
Sometimes doors that were meant to be closed spring open, and things from years ago aren’t just regurgitated into the present. They bask in the sun, root themselves, and blossom into a grotesque structure; their canopy creating a dark, blurry shade that bleeds into everything else. And it is here, blanketed in this shade, where I’ve been for the past week or so.
As with everything else, I attribute all the bad things in my life to my inability to sit still and focus on something good, be it writing, studying, or drawing. There’s always a background process, something else that screeches and gnaws at my peace. Memories are weird little goblins — lately, I’ve been seeing a lot of people who look like people I’ve known at some point, and it’s disconcerting to know that, against all incredulity, life really does go on.
I’m working on a project someone started almost three years ago. I’m using components someone ordered way before I even started college. When people say that we have our lives ahead of us, I wonder if this is what they mean. Is someone dropping remnants of their lives that I’ll pick up one day? Has someone been picking up all of the things I’ve hoarded away?
Come to think of it, it feels like we’re all inheriting unfinished stories; our present is made up of bits of someone else's life. How far does this line of tokens go?
I started this Substack around this time last year because I wanted to store unedited work, but now it’s morphed into more ranting, work that, no matter how much I edit, will always be a rant. I imagine one day I’ll come here, laugh at all of the drama here and get rid of it all – maybe replace it with generic essays and reviews because that’s cleaner and neater.
It’s been a messy week, where days aren’t held hostage by time but by awkward silences and more questions than answers. Although I find the accompanying formalities exhausting, I still derive a morbid sense of fun from the work, and I look forward to it, even though the rooms are too cold, making me feel like I’m walking into a mortuary. But in a strange way, I think the whole experience has helped me be more honest with myself, say no more often and speak with fewer filters; I feel like this is categorical growth, which is long overdue.
Perhaps I’ve been cleaning up after my thoughts so often that I forget to see the ‘messy’ in it. But honestly? I’m starting to enjoy wading through all of this paraphernalia, picking up odd bits and tossing others and just whisking through it. It’s funny, the things I seem to be finding.
[Featured image: Untitled, 1998 by Zdzisław Beksiński]