one of the saddest things i've ever heard was a line from woody allen's "vicky cristina barcelona." the sultry, adventurous friend cristina shares her inability to translate her feelings into something external: "it's sad, really, because i feel like i have a lot to express and i am not gifted." even though cristina is a filmmaker and a wonderful photographer, she considers herself a failure. whatever it is that she wants to share, she cannot.
i find this so tragic. how does it feel to lack the ability to express oneself? stifling? restrictive? unfair?
for me, i have my writing. but there are some things that simply cannot be compressed into graphite seraphs.
for me, i have my drawing. but there are some things that defy the boundaries of line and color.
for me, i have my music. but there are some things that are somewhere between a major and minor chord, that exist as their own beat, and cannot be found in a melody.
for me, i have small talents that allow me to share at least a part of what moves inside me, what places my fingers to keyboard, what wakes me before the sun and begs to be recorded on blank journal pages--
for me, i do not know what it feels like to lack the ability to express. for those who cannot, i ache for you truly.
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All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever present perils of life.
You know what this is from.
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