Revisiting Nemesis

My day started pretty early yesterday, being the first day back at work for the new year. One of those 5am starters having had little sleep the night before, thanks to a persistent set of parasites: one ruthless mosquito, and a box of muddled thoughts that have been collecting dust over time, deciding to burst forth at the end of yet another year. How often, even while trusting implicitly in the Will of the Divine, does one contemplate the possibility of there being 'something more' to life?

I have. Often enough. I suppose its what spurs me onward to find and reach a constant newness. I thrive on change and challenge. Always have. And so 2008 has many adventures in store. I am most certain of that. But the nagging past that - for the most part - begs being left behind, does tend to serve its fair share of reminders; ones that paradoxically shouldn't be quite forgotten for the invaluable lessons they bare. (Wouldnt want to be forgotten lest they repeat themselves for emphasis!). Mostly, I owe thanks to the ramblings of a fellow blogger, for causing these smatterings of past muddiness of memory to be hurled right back to the present moment, for a bit of reflection.

Oh and life's been colourful! Shades of pain and joy and tears and fears and hopes and dreams; silliness in love and salient moments out of love followed by inevitable growth spurts and regressions made up the unpredictable narrows of a roller coaster path. And often, the views were so breathtaking; it made riding the waves of storms that wrecked the soul seem worth it. Sometimes the sadism implied still makes more sense than the short-lived glimpses of heaven in countless promises heard through whispers on the wind: fragrant now, then just wistful delusion.

So anyway, earlier yesterday morning, when I read said ramblings of eloquent fellow blogger concerning life's little knocks and what not, I was inspired somewhat to make reflective notes of whatever had burst forth from the dam of contemptuous pathos that life had thus far laid to rest at my feet in begrudging gestures of engendered growth. Bundles of sticks and stones and semi-squished jellytots, half-eaten donuts, a parking tag or two and half a plastic ruler. Oh and the ubiquitous pencil, the arm of creativity chewed on by over-analysis, some melted crayons and a bottle cap scraped gleamy clean on another, now long lost (unrequited love epitomised thus). The stuff of life revealed in messy streaks of colour sprayed across a now worn canvas. And so the stuff flowed. Life's reel of film with muffled sounds fighting to be heard above the din of emotions, my heartbeats clambering like too many pots and pans in flight on a washing line, straining their pegs of restraint. A grandiose delusion, I must say, worse than Salvador Dali could depict, of a psyche in turmoil painted against the pathos of pretty fields of sunflowers from a calm and sheltered childhood.

My nemesis can be revisited in too many ways. Sigh. Perhaps I shall write a book about that too.