In recent times, it seems that the propagation of photo filters has only served to remind me how bright the sun used to shine of its own accord. Nostalgia can be funny like that, sometimes.
When I think back to my own childhood, and the endless summer days that comprised it, I oftentimes feel as though a timeworn veil has been lifted from my face - as though the clarity of retrospect has allowed for the clouds to part, and for the sun to hit my face without obstruction. And then, dancing across my line of foresight, it pours down over my memories like honey, and makes them particularly sweet to recall.
In recent times, it seems that the propagation of photo filters has only served to remind me how bright the sun used to shine of its own accord...
Looking forward, however, is something else entirely.
It can be hard to call a spade for what it is when you have only ever watched it from afar; when you haven't yet had the chance to hold it in your hands, or appreciate its weight, or carry it around with you. At least in my experience, making sense of the future has mostly been a myopic process - anything beyond my nose has always been too obscure to make out.
As a lifelong planner (and a little bit of a control freak), it can be anxiety-inducing to dwell in the presence of such unfamiliar, ill-defined shapes. It's like driving down a country road on a starless night, your line of vision extending only up until the point where your high-beams taper off. You keep on the straightaway, but forever watch the shoulder for any indication of a sudden turn.
It's a heavy burden, constantly anticipating a swerve in the road. More than anything else, it leaves you feeling powerless, and entirely alone in the dark. I think this is why we construe the past as being so bright by comparison; because even though the rear-view mirror is just as dark, our memory fills out the empty space where our eyes fail to do so.
The thing is, no matter where you're going, the light gets through to it eventually. And when the anxiety that we associate with the unknown is supplanted by knowledge, we archive it all away in the eternal sunshine of our memory; what's bad is understood, and what's good is made better.
I wrote the following poem about my own experience with this phenomenon, and while it's not my place to lecture anyone on how to best interpret it, I like to think that it encapsulates a nugget of wisdom when it comes to dealing with the unknown. After all, be it spectacular or mundane, our destinations meet us eventually. And while it can be difficult to ascertain the quality from afar, rest assured that things will become clearer in time.
They always do.
The light gets through all the same; and in my estimation, that illuminating quality goes a long way in making even mundane experiences fulfilling and worthwhile.
it can be hard to tell
a star from a speck of dirt
on a moonlit window,
but the light gets through- Patrick Mulligan (@bypatrickmulligan)
all the same.
As for me, writing constitutes the most illuminating source of light in my life. It is through writing that I make sense of everything that I experience, everything that I see, and everything that I feel. It serves as a way for me to communicate not only with other people, but with my deeper self.
Like a conduit to the heart of the matter, or a series of small Rosetta Stones, my oftentimes abstract words serve as artifacts through which I might better understand the unconscious language of all that regular prose can't convey - everything that I feel, but cannot find the right words for in conversation. And if I haven't yet lost you on this spiel, I hope that it might speak to you as well.
Thanks for reading, and remember; things only get clearer so long as you keep moving.
Patrick Mulligan
A self-proclaimed poet and writer from Brantford, Ontario. Currently living and working in Ottawa.
For more poetry, follow on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/bypatrickmulligan/?hl=en
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