ontaiah

There’s a certain kind of intuition you must have individually have, and resonance you possess together, that allows this to happen naturally. Many who try and force this end up in a miserable relationship and life.

Many swear a blood oath with that which they lack the courage to bleed for.

All stones were born to crumble—that doesn’t stop the visionary.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the legacy of the writer, it may be that whether it’s our forebears tackling the taboos of their generation or contemporary analysts trying to pierce through tight attention spans, words almost never land in the time period they’re intended for. Voices seem to be most often heard not straight from the authors tongue—but through the memetic echos that follow.

The soul is a fluid that slips and falls past the tightfisted—meeting the dirt from whence it came so it may properly engender a bloom most nurtured. With love comes an understanding that souls sit most comfortable in stable, cupped hands and flee from the shaky and grasping ones.

Success is to failure what fire is to timber. You can never have the former without the latter; you can skimp out to gather sticks and dry leaves, or reuse the charcoals of past victory to stall the work of logging, but you will soon find yourself sick in the cold failure of your own laze, and so you will once more find yourself gripping an axe staring down a trunk three times the size of your torso, shivering with frustration you begin striking with such a vigor and violence to your suddenly sweat and passion soaked body that you forget what the point of fire even is. You haul back to weary embers to stoke the evidence of your discipline and watch as your triumph roars louder than the fall of even the greatest lumber.

Even something as powerful as the sun will find itself shyly hiding behind the soft cloud occasionally.

My blade remains warm and wet with the follow of flesh, such that I know not the difference between edge and ichor.

Every thing that touches you is a brushstroke illuminating your nerves, lighting them up like a UV laser shining onto a glow-in-the-dark toy, you feel what you felt even long after you felt it; you cannot ever truly take the paint off the canvas; you can scrape it off but not without permanent damage. It is you now. To forget it is to pretend it cannot glow; to ignore it is to pretend the color you can name does not exist. You brain does not stop at the head, it is a mycelial fabric woven throughout your dermis alongside your capillaries. Being the ultimate painter is creating a masterpiece of sensation without so much as touching a brush. Where it is the soul that paints your feelings from the inside instead of the outside world. Let your life be one painted from the inside.

Every person is a texture, and just as you could look at something you’ve never touched before and know what it would feel like to lick it, you could share but one exchange with another and understand a particular topography of their soul. At the bottom of a seemingly negligible ravine could lie tucked away a mountainous cavern that could collapse in on itself at any moment — nevermind collapsing under the weight of your presence. The winds of wisdom may place its hand at the sacrum of the dunes of affinity, guiding its form such that you know how their taste and character will shape over time. Some pools of grief will dry up while others erode the continents of their soul, and where they might see a sentimental oasis of love or clarity, you see something that turns their grounding soft and sunken-in. To demonstrate your capacity to understand someone is to tell them “I’ve never walked your exact path before, but I have seen many of the trees you have, been thrashed by the same river you dread swimming in, and hiked a mountain as tall as the one that has paralyzed you, and I’d like to share the map I’ve lovingly traced with you—someone who seems to be lost—if not just found and a little disoriented.”

I share this sentiment. If my prose is too cold or flat, It doesn’t feel right to post it; even this sentence here is pushing it. I believe the true ‘purpose’ of nonfiction is to inspire fiction, just as the purpose of fiction is to inspire people. Nonfiction grants us the ontological scaffolding upon which to construct alluring falsehoods; for a moment we submit to beautiful lies so that we may depart for many more moments of beautiful truth. To write nonfiction is to skip pebbles across the river of truth and let them sink where they may — in the minds of onlookers. The water is clear, and while some see the pebble dance for miles, others can only ever see it as part of the riverbed. The twirl, the whip, and the succession of rings you betrothed upon the finger of sea itself means nothing to the spiritual bottom-feeder. Particulate are both river and riverbed; the former being blue and infinitesimal, the latter grayish and countable, and although it is the blue that grants respiration and aspiration alike, it is the gray that some only ever seem to see, for they would much rather know the fathomable than fathom the unknowable. This can discourage some from ever bothering to find that perfect rock to begin with. Nonfiction is not opposite to fiction, just as dark is not opposite to light, and cold not opposite to heat. Instead, one is a greater presence, as opposed to the vacuous one it emerges from. Light exists amidst a sea of dark, heat amidst a sea of cold, and fiction amidst a sea of nonfiction, or rather, lies amidst a sea of truth. It is these well-meaning lies that we sprinkle throughout the amniotic fluid that let us birth the tasteful discordances and phase cancellations that the brilliant melodies that so effortlessly break the waters surface are composed of and by. All words and phrases and concepts are approximations with varying degrees of mutual agreement amongst all of mankind. Nearly nothing is objective. Even the most obvious, blunt, boring truths are either poetry or lies in the eyes of some, just as the most beautiful, abstract, and moving poetries are either nonsense or obvious truths to others. The life we live is nonfiction, but the life we perceive is fictitious. It is the gaps in knowledge and the willingness to venture orthogonally across being itself that grants us meaning. We are not God, so to fathom absolute truth is a pipe dream, but to dream itself is absolute. In understanding the world, we are often tasked with a decision: count thousands of river rocks, or throw one. Perhaps it is worth asking if writing fiction to you is an entirely different atmosphere to adapt to, or if you simply must learn to take deeper breaths of the same air.