Reflections on the Journey

hdwallpapersact.com

Outside, snow deadened city and people equally as forcefully. The sky seemed to have collapsed in on itself, the damp, heavy blanket of snow enveloping the forsaken world within its suffocating embrace. I gathered myself as much as I could, slinging my purse over my arm and wrapping my scarf tighter around my neck. Looking around the theatre, I could just see the balcony and the lights rigging high above, silent and familiar in the blackness of the deserted theatre.

The chill cut instantly to my core as I hesitantly pushed through the stage door, greeting the outside world for the first time since morning. I was the last to leave, the only car left in the lot, a lonesome soul among shadows in the wintery land. Shivering, I snuggled further into my thick grey overcoat, quickening my pace towards the chilled metal enclosure of the car. In the dim glow of the stark streetlamps, it appeared as though not a single creature stirred in the matted environment. My car seemed frozen and foreign to my touch. I turned the key and it finally turned over, sluggishly choking to life. I could see my breath, even in the car, and outside the snow continued to fall, covering the ground in deep layer of white. Slipping through snow, squishing and crunching, I began to make my way home at last.

Few cars accompanied me on the road. Lonesome was the night, the snow had made hermits of us all. As I drove home, the heat blasting warm air about the car, NPR on in the background, I couldn’t help but think that an era was ending. The theatre, that theatre specifically, had been an integral piece of my life for almost four years. A shell of building, swathed in the powdery white, had a significance for me which was so great that I couldn’t help but feel sorrow as I drove away for one of the last times.

The landscape I was driving through was alien in the oblique white. Desperation became my foremost emotion as I drove on into the night. The lanes of the road became more and more difficult to discern. Everything was simply a wall of white as the blizzard crept in over the landscape. My shoulders hiked up towards my ears in an attempt to warm my body in the cold night air. Hunched over the steering wheel I slowly traveled onward, moving further and further away from the last era of my life with every mile I drove.

Driving onward, I moved without prospect, without direction, on into the night. Thoughts of the theatre flashed before my eyes. Lights on costumed actors, heavy makeup bedazzled across characters’ faces, fog floating saccharine through the hall, and voices hushed in whispers of anticipation lay dreamlike before my eyes. I drove onward towards an unknown destiny. The journey on that night felt as though it would never end. I slogged through the slushy, wet, thick snow.

I seemed to think about the death in my life on these nights driving home from work. I could just end it all here, I could just drive off the road and roll my car down the side of a mountain. So much else in my life had died. My grandparents had died; how easily they slipped from my grasp. Frail and ephemeral are we all in this life. I had died inside too; my heart had been ripped out a long time ago.

Where was I going? Where had my life gone, eighteen years gone without a trace of relevance?

I would never get home. Sure, I would arrive at a building that I had called home for so many years, cold, bewildered, and disheveled. But would I really be home— secure, complete?

As I drove on I got closer and closer to home, feeling the fragility of my life as the car skated across the icepack which was slick beneath the thick layer of white. Tomorrow would be another day back in the theatre. The people would be the same. That high-powered theatrical energy would fill the theatre to the brim. The snow would melt. And again, tomorrow, I would wonder where my life had turned so far from the course. I would wonder where I crashed, my car rolling down that mountain towards base, towards the center of my character.

Thinking back on this night, driving home from the theatre for one of the last times in my life, I am reminded of other snowy nights, similarly as comfortingly bleak. People shivered and muttered, holding on to the few small vestiges of beauty that would pull them through the winter on those nights. But I think I was happier then. I felt at least at that point like I knew what I was doing with my life. I knew where I was going.

I eventually reached home, or the place I currently called home. I feel like I am perpetually on a journey towards a home that is nowhere to be found. Towards a home that has no place and no time. The snow deadens the pain enough to go on. Innocence cannot be restored though; the snow is simply the illusion of security in a world that is more broken than complete.

-Ethan Brown Jones

 

Lost in Life

view-of-river

Lost. Looking up and having no place to go. We are lost, longing for some glimmer of hope, waiting for a rescuer that isn’t coming. We are alone in this life. When we trip and fall, no one cares. When we lose our way, no one is there to save us, and not a single person will guide us on our way without desperate imploration.

Waking up, we are dead before our feet even hit the ground. Our life has lost all purpose and we are just drifting on the gentle, savage waters of depression. Life is gray, the days are gray, the nights are gray; all is gray. Groping for our savior, we are drowning in the deepest black waters, sliding into forever while mercilessly adhered to the agonizing moments of today.

Our career has swallowed us up, and we are but another mindless, expendable employee. Frowning faces greet our every moment. Each hour seems to grow exponentially longer towards infinity, the excruciating days never ending.

We get in the car and just drive, hoping to god that life will just end. We drive on and on, driving on a journey towards nowhere, waiting for hope to come racing around the next curve towards us. The world goes on forever and we believe that if we just keep driving, perhaps we will hit the end of the darkness, that just maybe, our life will be cut short, thus ending our misery.

But we move on, because we don’t know what else to do. We have lost our way, and we are ignorant of which way to progress. We miss the life we used to live, and we miss the hope we used to feel. Locked in cynicism and depression, we see no hope for the future; but life moves on. We move on, and no one is there to hold our hand as we go forward.

We are alone in this world, and we are lost.

And life moves on…

Love, Ethan Brown Jones

Adrift: Thoughts on Now

southern-ocean-waves_386_600x450

Time moves faster now; the days grow shorter; the nights grow darker; the stress grows more intense. Sitting at my desk in the golden glow of my desk lamp, the fervor is palpable, the air somehow charged in anticipation of the busy night to come. My muscles stand rigidly, awaiting their next movement.

The long list of to dos seems to reach ever-onward into the abyss; a million things to do and so little time to complete them in. Time is ephemeral, life is rushed, days are busy, tasks are never done, relationships are never visited, and people are forgotten.

It’s easy to forget the joy we once knew, the ease and docile carelessness e once felt, and the apparent comfort we once experienced. Life is mundane now, we feel nothing. Life is uneasy, it is stressful, and we are seldom carefree. Life is uncomfortable now; we are submerged in a constant state of longing.

We remember the people we once knew, the places we once saw, and the things we once enjoyed.

Life is volatile now. It is fast. It is rushed. We are never safe, nor are we ever truly happy. We feel angry, we feel hurt, and we feel irritated.

In the dark, we are restless; we stare out longingly; we await the events of our life; we reminisce; we can never forget; we can never remember.

Our lives are disjointed, everlasting, never-ending, ephemeral, terse, fickle, loveless, subservient, stressful, fearful, furious, pulchritudinous, and dreamy; the list goes on and on.

We will never be happy, we think; we will never remember all we wish to; we will never be as talented as we once were; we will never live our dreams; we are adrift and no one is there to save us.

And then we wake up.

And then life moves on.

And then we are living, NOW.

Love, Ethan Brown Jones

Masterpiece Composition: a Life of Words

beautiful-words

Words flow; they define; they articulate; words alleviate and reminisce; they sprout and flourish and simmer; words swell, protrude, decipher, transcend, and inspire; words are the pulchritude of life.

But what really makes words uniquely glorious is that they express everything that can be expressed and go beyond and beneath reality into the consummate realms of knowledge, perception, and thought. Writing is the sole art form that has the power to inform and evoke in the exact same piece. Writing makes us remember, ache, aspire, and imagine. It makes us analyze our lives in ways that no other art can.

A single word can induce cerebration on an incogitably variable range of subjects. The word “home,” for example, may cause us to think about our own house, and then possibly the unending, unmanageable list of chores we have to do. We may think about our childhood house, the friends we knew then, and the person we were. The word may compel us to consider the very subjective definition of home that we ourselves possess as well as the scientifically factual definitions of what a home or habitat looks like.

It is in this way that we discuss language and its potential for greatness and spiritual simplicity. Language is deeply connected with our comprehension of the world around us. Each and every analysis we make is linguistically based. We observe the world through the lens of language.

Words take us to places we can only dream about. Those words grant us access to the inner sanctum of or own mind where our deepest, most complex thoughts come from. They elicit our most potent and intoxicating emotions, carrying us to places we remember and places we are yet to go.

But, most importantly, words are what we crave, what we devour, what we’re stimulated by, and what defines the fabric of our lives. Words write the script of our lives, and we wouldn’t want it any other way.

Love,  Ethan Brown Jones

A Perceived Reality

tumblr_mlpw7uAfKY1s20jbmo1_500

Sitting, watching, rolling along in the world, people go by, places disappear, and we never wake up.

Lounging, observing, living life to its fullest, people go by, places disappear, and we will always remember.

A tree can be many things. A tree can be a botanical oasis, a deciduous wonder, or a sculpture of nature. A tree can be a companion, a goldenrod firework, or simply just that which it is, eternally a tree.

Driving along a highway, one’s eyes dart from the roadway sporadically, leering at a passerby, observing a provocation of mild interest. But do we really reminisce or even simply ponder what we are actually observing?

Being an artist, a musician, a designer, or a writer, one learns early on that perception is paramount to one’s own art in addition to one’s reception and comprehension of others’ art. For an artist, it eclipses purely the art world and so perception and observation become the rawest essence of daily life.

Perception is fundamentally applicable for all though, not simply the artist. From the way we perceive sounds and lights and noises and colors, to the way we observe the more subtle and inconspicuous world of emotions, personalities, ideals, and aspirations, the observations we collect and the assessed perceptions we feed off of fuel our minds and our lives more than we can begin to cognize.

And so for some the tree may be just a tree, a biological organism complete with cells, molecules, and a carbon-based composite we call wood. But to the lucky few among us, that tree is something more, something existentially greater than originally assumed. That tree is a manifestation of beauty, courage, joy, transcendentality, and most of all, vivacious, unabashed life. That tree may be gold or green or even red, but that tree is a pictorialization of life and death, pain and resilience, and most importantly, love and loss.

So perceive life how you will, but comprehend and discourse with it each day. For each day is uniquely divergent from the last; lessons are learned, people go by, places disappear, and we will always remember.

Love, Ethan Brown Jones

Love Is… A Life Story

Solitary-Rose-HD-Wallpapers-1-2

Love knows no boundaries. Love is limitless. It is undiscriminatory. Love is unconditional and blind in its stark equality. Love is both indefinable and definite.

For all that love is, it remains as an underlying context as well as an all too familiar companion in life. But with its numerous virtues aside, love is painful, bitter, and heartbreaking. Love strengthens our resilience while in turn silencing our pride, humbling our very being, and squelching our quasicomfortable facade. We are in love, we are out of it, but the line between the two is existentially undefined as well as inexorably finite. We feel each experience with clarity, we know the journey of life is ephemeral and stern, and we contrive our self-esteem and self-sufficiency every day in preparation for love; but in all reality, not a single one of us isn’t blind-sided by the sheer intensity, the rancor, and the turmoil caused by love and its repercussions.

We cover our pain and sorrows in the scarves, the clothes, the cars, the handbags, the shoes, the alcohol, the makeup, and the hairstyles, but deeply recessed within the impenetrable layers of concealers, we still experience vivid sentiments of hatred, anguish, vengeance, suffering, and most of all, heartbreak.

Love never withers; nor does it succumb to vagrant dormancy. It is seldom forgotten. Love as coincident with passion flames vivaciously in fury. Love is raucous, it is undeserving, it is timid, it is venomous, it is pretentious, it is stubborn, and it is ignorant, but it is paramount to existence. A life without love is purposeless, cruel, and discontent. But incidentally, a life with love seems just as discordant and spiteful.

But, we live onward; we love onward. We try to forget; we try to remember; we try to live and laugh and love as best we can. Failure isn’t an option in love and so succeeding becomes the solitary alternative as necessitated by our aspirations for our lives. Our fate is indeterminate and our love is similarly unstipulated, but we live each day hoping the next one will be the day we fall in love. We are imprudent with love, but we are reasonable in our decision to keep trying, to keep hoping, to keep living, because tomorrow could be filled with love, and only time will tell what the future holds.

Love, Ethan Brown Jones

Solitary Comprehension

 

450-1-sunrise-dark-morning-maine-2bnmaine

When we look at a life, what do we remember? When we look at a day, what is it that sticks with us?

Waking up each morning at 5:35 AM reminds me of how much life happens when we are alone, utterly and truly alone. Darkness in the early morning is both all-encompassing and isolating. One thinks so much about one’s life in the solitary darkness that is the morning. One remembers the days gone by, the people they miss, the dreams they’ve lost.

When I wake up in the mornings, lying in the blackness, alone in my boudoir at night, and on the solitary drive to work, I tend to think about the people I love, the dreams I hope to accomplish, and the past as it will never be again. I think about the meaning of life, trying desperately, as many have for millenniums, to understand my purpose for existence. Comprehension of our own existence is the one adversity that we will all struggle with and most likely never overcome in our lifetimes.

When I am alone, I try to dig as deeply as I can into the depths of my soul, groping for the answers I so perilously desire. But alone time also leads to magnificent insights into the existential truths of life. The biggest asset we all possess in life is that of our ability to think critically. For when we delve deep into the mind, only then do we begin to really understand life, love, emotions, and relationships fully.

One can spend a lifetime thinking about living, but without immersing oneself in life, one can only begin to comprehend the vast number of minute complexities that make up the incredible existence that is life. One must think and learn and grow every day in order to better comprehend everything that life discloses to one.

Love, Ethan Brown Jones

Sublimity in the Simplicity

sublime_landscape_by_ff93-d3hrz64

What do we look for in life? Is it meaning, fulfillment, or destiny? Or is what we look for really just truth and reality? When we sit in front of the mirror in the morning, studying each miniscule but perceptible blemish and imperfection, are we searching for something to fault ourselves on? Are we looking for something to scratch felinely away at? Putting on our makeup and doing our hair, we tend to just tune out what we’re doing, remembering what Sally said to us yesterday or prepping for that early morning meeting. But why do we really work so hard to make ourselves beautiful each day? Is it because we fear ourselves? Or because we understand the power of looking, feeling, and being beautiful every single day? Do we really recognize anything about ourselves anymore? Or are we more likely simply drifting on in our lives hoping for some sign to appear pointing the way?

When we look at now, today, this moment, is our day outlined with clarity? Life seems to be less about clarity and what is, and rather more about finding the hidden nuances between black and white, the subtle niches that circumscribe each moment of perfection. In the hidden secrets, we find solace in knowing that somewhere buried beneath the rude noise of unrealistic, sublime idealisms, is a path for us to follow. Somewhere deep in the darkness of the unknown is, we convince ourselves, our calling, a purpose for life. But when we wake up in the morning thinking about work, putting on our makeup, driving to work, and shopping for groceries, do we really have any idea of what our purpose is or will be? Are we drowning without a guide to pull us on?

What we realize in the ordinary, lonesome moments of life is that no help is coming. No guide or visionary is there to pull us out when we get stuck. And so we trudge on, knowing that life will reveal our true calling only when we are ready for it. We must learn to push on through the boresome days of our lives, waiting for the transcendent. We must look for meaning in the ordinary simplicities of each day. Each thought is sublime. Each moment portrays the exquisite beauty of life. But we must push ourselves to realize these sublimities. For a life without perfection is a life without purpose.

Love, Ethan Brown Jones

Alone in the Universe

266120main_image_1149_946-710

Life reminds us too often that we are very much alone in this universe. We try to pretend every single day that we are not lonely, but the reality is that that we are all a little bit horribly, unfortunately, painfully alone. We forget how alone we are for moments each day, when talking with our friends perhaps; but that doesn’t change the true nature of our solitariness. In our aging, we realize more and more that not only are we alone a majority of the time in our lives, but we also enjoy being alone for much of that time. It is in that alone-time, on the bus, alone in the dark of our rooms, or sitting solely at lunch that we get our best thinking done. It is in that time that we learn of the incredible monologue of our mind and assimilate how to discourse in depth with it.

That monologue is the one that drives us on each day. It asserts to us the merits of what we are doing and prompts us to introspect on our purpose and calling in life. One of the most important things a person can do in life is develop a healthy and sustainable relationship with that voice. The best concepts and innovations are thought up when sitting truly alone, engrossed in a depth of conversation with the neurological monologue that is impossibly unattainable in any human relationship.

Our battles in life are ultimately ours to fight alone. Friends and family are there to support us in both our triumphs and our losses, but it is each of us alone that truly sacrifices and obtains everything in our own unique life. We try every day to build our exterior relationships when what we should be doing is strengthening our own inner love affair. I guess what I’m trying to say is this: in the end, we are our own greatest asset as well as our biggest adversary, but we are all we have. So we must learn to communicate with ourselves and we must never stop thinking. The day we are truly alone is the day that even our mind goes silent.

Love, Ethan Brown Jones

A Utopian Abstract

aspen_trees6

The sun shone warm and bright as I walked down the mall in the middle of September. How charming it was with the golden leaves of fall strewn across its brick walkway, how handsome the men were, how elegant the women. Each shop I passed seemed to both beckon and repel me with equivalent force. Was it just me, or did the people seem happier here, the cars shinier, the landscape somehow more content? Maybe it was all just a façade, perhaps not.

I drove on to the house of my dreams, a villa among houses, a mansion to many. The road bent right and I turned slowly onto my drive, a gravel road that grew somehow more gorgeous with each consequent bend. The road ended seductively in front of a wall of windows, shining in the afternoon sun’s warm rays. Shutting off the engine of my hot pink 1959 Cadillac DeVille, there was only one thing I wanted to do: fall into the arms of the boy behind that dark front door. I wanted to sit willfully at my deep black grand piano and play as I gazed out over the orangy-yellow hills. I wanted to walk up that flight of stairs, into my office, and just sit and sketch, a million inspirations pressing me onward. I wanted to sit back on my deck chair, a glass of red wine in hand, and write, my ideas spilling onto the page like a rushing mountain stream.

Now, I can imagine that crisp air, that perfect house, that perfect lover, that perfect life. But now, I crumple over my notebook, not in that dream house, not with that dream boy. I haven’t just driven up in that impeccable car; I am not brimming with ideas in my perfectly designed office. I sit now, in my cozy room. No lover awaits me. No view seems to inspire my artist’s passion.

But I sit and write, not because my life is absolute Utopia, but because all I want is to express that perfection. My desire is to live in that splendid dream-world, but nothing changes quickly. And as I write these words now, the ink flying effortlessly across the page, all I can think is that I am living, now. I am loving and hoping and working, now.

I must look up. I must realize the almost implausible perfection and beauty of my meager office, my all too familiar, lonesome boudoir. I must learn to accept and live, looking forward, gazing through memories. I must maintain what undeniable animation seems to exist at this very palpably existent moment.

Love, Ethan Brown Jones