An open book, a picture, the sound of a cheerful blossom, the turn of a smiling head or a smell that curls into your nose and penetrates your memory, is all it takes to transport you to a different place and time. Such normal incidents can make you feel so out of place in a split second and then it vanishes and you move on. But in that second your mind does split and you are reminded of something past that you have pushed away in the necessity of sacrifice. I had one of those today, probably everyday but it is not something that you can hold onto because it is already a memory that relies on some movement or gesture to activate it. It was during my English tutorial where we were trying to understand something as elusive as postmodernism and while doing so passing postmodernists and modernist art books around the circle. The weight of the book as it hit my hand and the art, oh the art that stared back from the pages grabbed and pulled me into my memory and I was lost in Edvard Munchs’ scream and Pollock’s tearing mess for a few pleasurable seconds. This is the sacrifice that I made to be here. I love to write but I LOVE art. Unfortunately my insecurities or the force of lucrativeness or another’s words of “wisdom” has shoved that desire aside for a few seconds but I will pluck up enough courage to realise that life is too short to follow your second rate dreams.
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