Memoirs of an Amnesiac

"Without pain, one cannot write," so quips my Literature teacher way back in college. Like children with faces beaming and reflective that of a five-year-old (who just learned that they could make shake out of kamias), we asked our teacher, "What happens when there is no pain, Miss?" She simply answered, (matter-of-factly, as if her answer equates that of the knight's incessant question where the Holy Grail was), "then, slash yourself."

There is something far more ineffable than just merely describing pain. Through it, thousands of novels, literary pieces, albeit they line up walls and walls of decrepit libraries, lay waiting for mortals (who desperately want to make sense with pain) to caress its yellowed pages. I wonder whether Shakespeare in all his brilliance and artistry, had really made sense with his own dilemma with pain.

"No pain, no gain," thus mimics that Nike commercial (which is more often than not starred by basketball icons to probably promote the product through sweaty hoops). Yet it is more than just a Nike thing, because it is a coinage by Benjamin Franklin from his 1758 classic, "The Way to Health," the first American book on finance, providing indispensable advice about hard work, earning, saving money and debt.

Truly without pain, there could be no inspiration. For when one is at his or her height of exhilaration and euphoria, all matters of transcendence is gone with the wind. When one is in pain, one delves into a spiral-warped world of oblivion, where imagination and reality, precariously meets. Thus, when pain is injected (like some elixir serum) into our system, we feel different, unreal yet alive. Our body and mind's initial reaction is to make sense with what's happening with the new world we are thrust into (like a fetus that is about to reach his/her mom's pwerta). Thus, with the search for meaning begins the journey to creativity, to fulfilling that longing to define something beyond words. Where words begin, ideas seem to have a mind of their own.

I could either use my imagination (or wonderment) at the countless works and masterpieces that are created, are in the process of creating and will be created all for the sake of pain. In fact, my brain starts to bleed each time I do.

However, like a paradox of sorts, with all the bitterness, self-indulgence (if one decides to use this as a defense mechanism), sarcasm, and narcissistic propensity, pain after all is the best antidote to happiness. It compensates to some degree, that void that lingers even after a written (or musical) piece is created.

And when that point of nirvana comes, we all look forward to another bout of pain.

Another unending quest to find meaning to that single ineffable thing that was the reason behind this blog.