Why do we develop certain feelings toward some stories? Movies? Music? Series? Books?
Why do we keep going to them, and finding references, pinpointing meaning, and seeing snippets of them in other places?
Dreaming while awake, recognising mesmerising connections to something that became ingrained in our minds… or something like that.
Why do we fall in love for a piece of art in ways that keep us bound to them? Keeps us believing we are crazy to love them, and don’t seem to find any logical explanation to be so connected, no matter all its short-comings?
Why do we love them so much, even if we see some stuff that aren’t usually to our exact taste?
Why do we see something and feel so connected to it, that it seems impossible to live without expressing its truth in us, and in our own life and work? Even through objects that we use, or look at, in our daily life?
What is it that struck a cord so deep that we are willing to overlook all it’s flaws, to forget all the others, to devote to learning more, seeing more, connecting more to it?
How this gift from another gets into our hearts, under our skins, and keep us bound to it, no matter what?
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How can we reproduce this feeling in our work? How can we make others love this creation of ours so much?
Is it a random occurrence? Is it designed? Can it be done again?
Can we find cult vibes in our own work? I don’t think the creator ever sees those in his own creations, but I may be wrong…
It’s not too frequent to be swept off my feet and into dreamland. But it does happen. And it always leaves me unhinged.
Don’t get me wrong. I like it. There’s nothing quite like finding something that fills me with this devotion beyond any rational construct of mine.
And if we could take Bukowski’s thoughts on this, not about lovers as is his theme, but about other things that fills us with these feelings, we would gladly let ourselves expand to contain the object of our love, until we were no more what we have been until then.
“My Dear,
Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
Falsely yours”
― Charles Bukowski
Puns apart, for the subtext related to romantic love, this idea of letting what we love kill us, because we will die anyway, doing all the things we do not love, at whatever the pace these things take a hold on you, feels true. [It’s Bukowski, why wouldn’t it feel true?]
To find this all consuming feeling in something is truly a gift. Something to defile the numbness of the big life.
I’ll leave you with a snippet of my latest connection … click here… What will I do with it? Let it kill my misconceptions and fill my creative self… and enjoy it.
