If I don’t write about it I can’t remember it well. It’s a fact that I’ve just come to accept: my memory, for most intensive purposes, isn’t that vivid. It’s what brings my hand to paper so to speak, though I find frustration in the translation. Through my years of writing, the quest has become about perfecting translations of experience. It’s not about awards, or recognition per se–though either are welcome. It’s about conveying an experience in its entirety; trying to capture the purity in the moment. At this, failure is a given, for no experience–no matter how skilled one may be at wielding words–can ever truly be understood through rhetoric. And so, I find pleasure in second place when it occurs and occasionally smile at those positions which follow. Victory is not found in perfection, but rather in product of efforts tried and dared to be tried. That is where I find my great pleasure. For me, efforts made on paper mirror those made in life–a constant battle to prove what rules I’ve made for failure to be false. The fallacy weaved by a life coached from adolence has, at times, chipped away at the most precious of inner resources. From that, doubt, fear, and anger have given rise to a seeking of security and safety. Yet still, it burns from within and frequently scalds my fear, and despite the discomfort, I am always glad it’s here to remind me; to wake me up; to guide me back to what I know to be pure and true.

It happens sometimes that I’m walking and suddenly become overwhelmed by a feeling of openness. The subsequent wave of emotions that follow are those of liberation and hope. The hope grows into an uncanny explosion of excitement and wonder; free from doubt; free from restriction. And all at once, I drop the script. It doesn’t matter. The rules are gone. The moment reveals its power in the eruption of a sense that life is inherently good and that people are good, and that the world is simple, that what complexity we perceive doesn’t actually exist. To my amazement, no such deliberate attempts to counter this feel have been effective. As an experiment, I tried to conjure fear during one of these moments and found that it proved to have virtually no impact. Fear emerged in my mind only to mature to a rank of “silly,” like a child’s doodle that requires no further inquiry. Next, I tried anger, and it too felt strange and powerless. Upon their calling, the negative powers of the world appeared to be easy, light, and of no real significance.

Though I can never predict just when it will come, it has come more and more frequently over the past few years, and I feel somewhere inside of myself that I’m getting close to something. Close to what? I cannot say, but I know it’s where I want to be. Upon analyzing my desire to know this feeling more often, I initially recoiled, wondering if my search might be doomed at its origin: and quest for unremitting pleasure. But then, my senses were eased as I discovered that this was not my goal. The goal is not the feeling itself more than it is for the significant meaning that it carries. Behind the feeling itself is the liberation it promises through a sense of understanding the world and the life that it holds in such a simplistic manner that true happiness can be easily known. I think happiness is always right where we are, but often we can’t see it, or have our vision lined with countless distractions and temptations that confuse our path. In these brief moments of which I speak, I can clearly see a path out of the forrest and am nearing it with each step.

 While in the midst of it I find happiness, excitement, and hope wherever I look: in the brilliant glint of the city lights, the laughter of a group of boys passing by; two girls sharing a cigarette, and the hurried trot of a delivery man passing through the crowd. These perceptions feed the moment and I sometimes find pure bliss for extended periods of time; time in which I feel that anything is possible, that everyone is a friend, and that none are ever truly alone.