That is how I wanted to begin this post. However, upon typing it out, my mind warned me that these words were not my own. Therefore, I did a search, and found T.S. Eliot's poem, The Hollow Men. He ends it with these lines (italics in the original):
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
It is a coincidence that the inspiration for my quote should draw from a famous poem, alongside the fact that I butchered it. You see, I intended to share a poem I wrote back in middle school, a silly one about a lighthouse. Reading it just now has left me embarrassed, and reluctant to share. Poetry was never my forte, despite my deep reverence for the few that I have experienced in a meaningful way.
Yet, I might still follow through. This blog is about vulnerability and understanding. And what better way to expose one's self than through a poorly written, childish poem--a failed attempt at a creative endeavor?
After all, the topic of my old poem also aligned with the content of the image above, which in turn reflected back to one of
my earliest posts about lighthouses. Reading it again, just now, reminded me of the start of my blogging. Particularly, the volume and depth of my prose. It was raw, yet tight and focused. And there was plenty of it. I was producing three posts a week during my first year. Now? My content is scattered. Loose ends dangle everywhere. And, worse, my style reflects these inconsistencies. For the past year, I have struggled to create back-to-back Sunday posts.
I feel lost.
And so, I dove into the past, not once, but twice. Both writings refer to one of my favorite types of buildings. The first plunge, was into the shallow end: an early, but contemporary blog post. The second, a deeper descent: an old, original poem. However, their themes could not be any more different. On the one hand, in the blog post, the scene opens with my standing alone, on a cold, dark evening, before an over-packed storage unit. Then there is a chance meeting with someone, followed by a quote about insanity and doing the same thing too many times. Finally, it wraps up with a reference to teaching. In the end, I blogged about action and hope. (I would write about that storage unit again.) The poem, on the other hand, starts in the present moment, under bright skies and screaming birds. Then it slips into ancient pasts filled with power and victory. Yet, upon returning to the present day, there is now loss and decay. The poem ends on a note of regret.
Perhaps all of this means I am stuck between two worlds: one filled with confidence and progress, the other doubt and regression. It is not the first time, and will not be the last. I refuse to engage this struggle like I did throughout high school, college, and early adulthood. That is, shutting down emotionally, and running away physically. I like to believe I have matured. My first round of blogging was a novel way for me to deal with the end of my first attempt at teaching. It helped, for some time. Then I stopped. When the Pandemic hit, I tried this habit again, with some changes. And it worked. My life was changing, and I adjusted, without shutting off my emotions, or walking away from obligations. Again, blogging played a positive part.
Now, I stand at another crossroads. The paths are shrouded in my ignorance, hesitation, and fear. Blogging may drive away some of the fog. Or, it may further cloud my vision. If I continue to write on this platform, some aspect of it will have to change, otherwise, I am just engaging with insanity. The writing and content need to improve and be consistent. However, if I decide to end this blog, I need to find another creative outlet. There are options: writing those short stories and novels, focusing on my drawing skills, going back to teaching.
I would love to combine it all, but currently I lack the habits and skills to follow through.
Or, perhaps, if I could navigate through this stormy, churning sea of broken thoughts and arrive safely at a harbor, I would discover a clear road across this unchartered land.
Until then, here is that poem I wrote so many decades ago.
The Lighthouse
There stands a lighthouse
All alone
On a beach
That is deserted
And overgrown,
With trees and branches
And wooden oars
That moved the ships
During the old sea wars.
From the deep blue sky
Swoops down a seagull,
As swift as an eagle,
And into the lighthouse
It sits alone.
From the beach runs a boy
Looking at the once mighty lighthouse
That once was bright red
And clean white;
That at a time stood proud
And was a light
That guided sailors and merchants
Through the dark, stormy nights.
Now it lies in shambles
Ready to rot and die
Next to the road
That is once could call its own.
