Hi everyone, my name is Ali.
Keeping it true to my nature of love of writing I would like to engage this introduction with a simple outburst of emotions onto this digital ink that perhaps I may find a route out of these dark woods my mind lately have chosen to reside in. A fellow experienced traveler such as yourselves might have a clearer view and a more sober mind to what is yet to come, and can perhaps, as much as allowed, cushion my blows regarding this rather frightening and alarming condition I find myself facing today. If nothing else I wish to inspire your struggles and tears, so please hear to what I have to say, and keep patience.
Excuse the poetic language and perhaps at time the drunken expressionism, but lately whenever I find myself in deep emotional distress I can not but help find refuge in romanticizing my writing to perhaps foolishly find a purpose in the very same thoughts that keep me in shackles. Is this a defense mechanism that my mind partake in, to find a purpose where there is none? Then why is it defeating me?
A favorite quote of German philosopher Frederich Nietzsche rings this very sentiment "What really raises one's indignation against suffering is not suffering intrinsically, but the senselessness of suffering."
Here I find myself today, twenty four years of age, with otherwise a healthy fit body and a sound mind yearning to take on the world. I would not ascribe these characteristics unique in anyway, nor do I feel a sense of accomplishment for having them, for health is as such, not adequately well celebrated enough for when one has it, but heartbreakingly yearned for when it signals its departure. So in this spirit I cry not over what has departed me, but I am joyful in what has decided to keep me company. Yet, I am sad. Why?
With sensitive ears, that I perhaps might refer to myself as Mr. Glass, and a ringing so intrusive that it makes the church clocks on a Sunday morning a cause for celebration, I now face what seems to be an insurmountable mountain, a ubiquitous sense of fright that is unexplainable to the outside world perhaps most importantly not even explainable to myself.
What is this ringing I hear, is this natural? Can one live with this?
In times like these one wished to draw wisdom from past heroes and heroins. To see their fright, their struggles, or perhaps a glimpse of their mountains in hope that they might dwarf ones own.
Yet, no hero of mine speaks of ringing in the ears, or ears of glass, only of flesh wounds and broken hearts, all which with the passage of time are mended and cared for. Or am I in times like these misinterpreting the very spirit of ancient tales and stories? That their struggle and fright, and eventuality their overcoming of such, is not mended through the power of surmounting illness itself, but by surmounting the very same feeling it produces in one. Am I to reach that height yet?
A frequent question is to be asked frequently. Will it ever be the same again?
To describe tinnitus in a poetical language takes the very poetry out of it. Do you understand me? What painter wishes to have his paintings cluttered with inspiration not his own? What dancer wishes to have her steps taken were no intent in taking those very steps were made? Artists and geniuses all rely on blank white slates to express their vision. Their expression of nothingness is in the same essence an expression of somethingness, they are inseparable entities in the creative mind, and therefore require separable but yet homogeneous spaces. Tinnitus, I feel, deprives me of that. The sunset, your beautiful lips, the touch of your skin. All these colorful images in the space of my mind are discolored now. Forever.
They tell me that I can still feel those very experiences. Perhaps true, perhaps not. However, at my mind's door each morning a question knocks feverishly like the very first day it came, and begs yet again:
Will it ever be the same?
Ali
Keeping it true to my nature of love of writing I would like to engage this introduction with a simple outburst of emotions onto this digital ink that perhaps I may find a route out of these dark woods my mind lately have chosen to reside in. A fellow experienced traveler such as yourselves might have a clearer view and a more sober mind to what is yet to come, and can perhaps, as much as allowed, cushion my blows regarding this rather frightening and alarming condition I find myself facing today. If nothing else I wish to inspire your struggles and tears, so please hear to what I have to say, and keep patience.
Excuse the poetic language and perhaps at time the drunken expressionism, but lately whenever I find myself in deep emotional distress I can not but help find refuge in romanticizing my writing to perhaps foolishly find a purpose in the very same thoughts that keep me in shackles. Is this a defense mechanism that my mind partake in, to find a purpose where there is none? Then why is it defeating me?
A favorite quote of German philosopher Frederich Nietzsche rings this very sentiment "What really raises one's indignation against suffering is not suffering intrinsically, but the senselessness of suffering."
Here I find myself today, twenty four years of age, with otherwise a healthy fit body and a sound mind yearning to take on the world. I would not ascribe these characteristics unique in anyway, nor do I feel a sense of accomplishment for having them, for health is as such, not adequately well celebrated enough for when one has it, but heartbreakingly yearned for when it signals its departure. So in this spirit I cry not over what has departed me, but I am joyful in what has decided to keep me company. Yet, I am sad. Why?
With sensitive ears, that I perhaps might refer to myself as Mr. Glass, and a ringing so intrusive that it makes the church clocks on a Sunday morning a cause for celebration, I now face what seems to be an insurmountable mountain, a ubiquitous sense of fright that is unexplainable to the outside world perhaps most importantly not even explainable to myself.
What is this ringing I hear, is this natural? Can one live with this?
In times like these one wished to draw wisdom from past heroes and heroins. To see their fright, their struggles, or perhaps a glimpse of their mountains in hope that they might dwarf ones own.
Yet, no hero of mine speaks of ringing in the ears, or ears of glass, only of flesh wounds and broken hearts, all which with the passage of time are mended and cared for. Or am I in times like these misinterpreting the very spirit of ancient tales and stories? That their struggle and fright, and eventuality their overcoming of such, is not mended through the power of surmounting illness itself, but by surmounting the very same feeling it produces in one. Am I to reach that height yet?
A frequent question is to be asked frequently. Will it ever be the same again?
To describe tinnitus in a poetical language takes the very poetry out of it. Do you understand me? What painter wishes to have his paintings cluttered with inspiration not his own? What dancer wishes to have her steps taken were no intent in taking those very steps were made? Artists and geniuses all rely on blank white slates to express their vision. Their expression of nothingness is in the same essence an expression of somethingness, they are inseparable entities in the creative mind, and therefore require separable but yet homogeneous spaces. Tinnitus, I feel, deprives me of that. The sunset, your beautiful lips, the touch of your skin. All these colorful images in the space of my mind are discolored now. Forever.
They tell me that I can still feel those very experiences. Perhaps true, perhaps not. However, at my mind's door each morning a question knocks feverishly like the very first day it came, and begs yet again:
Will it ever be the same?
Ali
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