Fountain Pen and Philosophy

Disclaimer: This post does not necessarily follow the trend of documenting the things I've never done before.  It is true that in my two week absence from this blog, I have participated in many activities that I have never experienced before.  At the moment, however, they seem wholly unimportant and can wait.  Today, I would rather muse, ponder, and articulate my recent revelations.  If I was to stretch this post to make it suit the theme of the blog, I would say that I have never posted a philosophical musing before (which is quite a feat for moi, as reflections are my natural tendency).  I find that they are normally, however, not as entertaining as descriptions of funny and absurd events.  I also find that philosophical musings litter the internet, posted by people who want to feel important and appear deep but, unfortunately, come across as neither.  I do not wish to appear as either.  I simply wish to express my current feelings and thoughts at the moment so I may release them from my brain into the atmosphere, like one may release a wild animal from confinement.  Anyway, this disclaimer is getting absurdly lengthy and I am digressing, so continue on to the main post. 

The other day, I felt an irrepressible urge to write.  I was in Eugene, staying with one of my best friends, and the solitude I require to write was nearly unavailable (not to mention that musing, reflecting, and other verbs accompanying the writing process become unattractive when compared to hanging out with Heidi).  Under the influence of my sudden writing urge, however, I was willing to give it a try.  I pulled out my fountain pen and pressed it to paper.  The fountain pen is a tricky device, that normally requires shaking and/or tapping against the page in order for ink to release.  And so I did this.  I coaxed the pen, shook the pen, tapped the pen, caressed the pen, turned the pen upside down and beat the pen against my paper, but still no ink came out.  Throwing the pen down in frustration, I looked down at my hands and realized that they were covered in ink.  The pen refused to even drip ink onto the page, but it had no problem leaking ink onto my hands uselessly.  I was stained with ink and had no way of transferring it from my skin onto the page. 

Though I could not write this down due to my problem listed above, I came to the conclusion that this experience was a metaphor for my relationship with writing, and the irony of trying to convey the inexpressible  The ink is the messenger, the translator, that conveys the thoughts I want to express.  No one can convey thoughts without this middleman.  Currently, the middleman that allows me to convey these thoughts to you is the keyboard.  The keyboard and the ink, however, are useless without my articulation.  The keyboard itself is not thought; neither is the ink.  Ink splotches on my skin do not convey that I love you, though a message written in the ink might.  

 In the context of the metaphor, my inability to put ink to paper and express my thoughts was not the pen's failure, but my failure; it did not fail to function properly, instead, I failed to articulate.  Instead of releasing my thoughts from my mind onto the page via the pen, they soaked into my skin and stayed in my body, remaining confined in my individual consciousness and therefore unable to be understood by anybody but myself.  This unfortunate process happens frequently in everyday life: the inability to express what is undeniably inside of you.  The gift of the writer, then, is that she has the ability to translate these thoughts into physical things outside of her body, so that other people may understand.  The frustration of the writer, is when ink gets all over her hands instead of translating her thoughts into something conceivable.  

My other revelation is of a different nature.  I was pondering what people pursue in relationships (not just romantic, but all human relationships).  I mean, why do I even speak to others at all?  And I found that, for me anyway, it boils down to this: I pursue human relationships so that I may find a connection to someone that makes me feel part of this universe instead of wholly isolated from it.  I think the chief human emotion is loneliness, for we are all confined within the realms of our own individual consciousnesses, and cannot truly enter the realm of another.  The struggle, then, and the human purpose, is to find a way to suppress this feeling of isolation by making connections with people.  These connections are made through language in its many forms: speaking, writing, fine art, film, etc.  

The second thing I believe people pursue in life is something infinite to grasp onto.  Leo Tolstoy has an essay about this entitled "My Confession".  Unfortunately, many people, myself included, seek the infinite in human relationships.  This is a tall order, however, to ask of someone who is as finite as yourself.  Human emotions, moods, values and actions are ever-changing and unreliable.  To seek the infinite in a human connection is to set oneself up for disappointment, for a connection is but a moment.  I suppose the conclusion I'm drawing currently from all this is to seek solace in human connections, but to refrain from relying on them for peace of mind.  Connections come and go, and its important to remember that if one disappears, another will take its place soon enough.  

I apologize for the seriousness of this post.  To conclude it and stick to my game plan, I offer you an example of a human relationship that is nearly everlasting:

No, it is not Bella and Edward (that shit's creepy).

It is my friendship with Leonardo DiCaprio.

Ten points for Leo reference!