Whenever you read an article – a competent article at least, they are usually the result of a first draft formed in a flash, followed by a series of read-throughs and changes designed to sharpen the piece; much like a sculptor forms ice-blocks into finely formed physical beings – careful and considered. Construction is 90% of the work, and where the incredible amount of effort makes it appear so effortless, as it were.
The point behind this is to show an example of how the human mind actually operates – instead of the distorted idea which has been presented to us over the past century; in conventional art, literature and general entertainment. My plan at the first word was to dictate an article on the thoughts currently running through my mind, during this greying period of readjusting to reality in the cloudy suppressed sadness of England; after a holiday in the beautiful liberated terrain of Mediterranean Barcelona.
There are a multitude of ideas to choose from: the brutal 26-hour coach journey home, the Castadefell beach beauty, the ugly illusion of La Ramblas, the literal dizzying heights of the Nou Camp football stadium, and why Chocolate Negro Filipino biscuits remain so popular in Catalonia. But my mind lack focus right now, and nothing seems able to produce anything; and I would rather write nothing, then force an article which says less than nothing.
I am sitting in a Starbucks in my local town of Edgware, North-West London. It is a place I know well. Here I wrote and edited the majority of my first book, "Our Human Labyrinth", as well as countless scripts and articles, and met people I will never forget - as much as those I have no desire to remember. The words do not flow, and this feel like nonsense, but again this is a reflection of the human mind. Don’t we all spend our days walking around carrying stacks of pointless, random ideas inside of ourselves; sweeping the majority under the metaphorical rugs of our private feelings, in favour of the necessary logic required to survive another day?
When a friend of mine inevitably walks into this building, I will act in a play with myself as the director – just as they may do too. We will communicate as if our thoughts are centred, controlled, and flowing like a stream of fine divine Merlot on an Italian stream – when in reality, they are only rocks floating around in some polluted pond, in the heartland of a decaying Merseyside river. We will promote ourselves as the paintings, when we are really brushes of a much wider canvas.
I will pull out my sword of a well-developed sense of humour, as a defence mechanism against a deep-rooted sadness to the bitter-sweet nature in which I see existence, feel uprooted from the connection, and leave wondering if this level of self-thought is actually worth the hassle, as well as being somewhat selfish; especially when true happiness and centre of mind tends to arrive in the giving, and not the taking back. I shall wonder why I am still immature enough to waste time thinking, when aware actions make life happen – whereas thoughts are just that, random ideas which pop into our heads, for reasons which - much like this article, is likely to make far from perfect sense.
We are complicated beings. Our minds are never fully at peace with our heart and soul, and the never-ending list of possibilities, questions and feeling of judgements upon the decisions we choose or ignore weigh heavily upon us - not matter how openly we pretend they do not, or hold them back with our own strengths of character. But this is okay. Not really knowing and never being certain is what makes us human. And sometimes, writing an article without edit, may help a random reader; who feels alone because their minds wander around like a child’s eyes in a Toys ‘R’ Us, not feel so alone.
Or maybe I just want confirmation I am not alone myself. Who knows for sure. Our minds are not always articles to read with clarity, and every first draft is a reality we cannot edit. It all feels so bitter-sweet...