Blood and Watermelon

I spend so much time analyzing the depth of the universe (as though I have any sort of qualifications to do that) with no way to explain my thoughts except through the ink on the endless pages of my various overpriced Barnes and Noble journals and letters to a lover. It is only recently that I realized the potential problem with this limited form of release and explanation. Hence, me wanting to start a blog as a way of sharing my thoughts to at least a slightly broader audience is a very recent development, as my far too often closed heart tends to shy away from sharing the things that are important to me with any audience for that matter, let alone any audience anything close to "broad." I have always admired people who are brave enough to release their souls into such a great state of vulnerability by releasing, particularly through written word, what they hold precious and dear to any sort of even remotely broad audience, who very well may simply laugh and scorn at the vastness (or shallowness) of what to them is their beautiful expression. 

It's interesting that we tend to admire most in others the things that we ourselves lack. Instead of further indulging in the safety of my own admiring inactivity of personal thought sharing, I've decided to start this blog as a way of at least slightly publicly and (if I may point out) very bravely sharing what I analyze of things like literature and human nature and the universe.  I think it is noteworthy that I have come to the conclusion of the importance of sharing such thoughts publicly through pondering the concepts of, believe it or not, blood and watermelon. 

Earnest Hemingway, in what I would imagine to be a very nonchalant tone, said "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." On a similar note, T.S. Eliot eloquently pointed out that "The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink." Friedrich Nietzsche, another casual scholar, said "Of all that is written, I love only what a person has written with his own blood. Write with blood: and you will discover that blood is spirit." Obviously, Hemingway, Eliot, and Nietzsche were much more keen than I on sharing the most gorgeous things of their heart and veins, (that is, assuming Nietzsche had a heart...?) making up their life-flow, with an extremely wide audience—something, that as previously mentioned, I've come to greatly admire.

With my only knowledge of anatomy coming from a human biology class I was required to take in high school, I know little to nothing of the biological workings of the heart, but I would respectfully presume that neither did the scholars previously mentioned, all of which seem to be fascinated by the organ. And despite my lack of knowledge, the organ has always fascinated me as well. The concept of particles, like tiny vessels (Death Cab for Cutie, anyone?) carrying oxygen through our bodies in order for us to continue living, all made possible through the musical, spiritual, and physical beat of an organ no larger than our fist is simply stunning. Hence, to give of one's blood is the ultimate sacrifice and to be blood related is to be naturally bound together in love, adding great significance to the fact that, as shown above, brilliant minds have compared writing to bleeding. As a person writes, or creates in any manner of fashion for that matter, they give a great part of themselves, even a part of their life, for the sake of creating what to them is beauty. 

With that in mind, in my far too metaphorical way, I'd like to talk about watermelon. In the summer, my Mother will cut up entire watermelons and place the slices in a bowl to bring to every family gathering. Said watermelon slices are gone within minutes. In fact, I remember half of said watermelon often being gone before my Mother had even finished cutting up the other half, as my siblings and I would sit on the counter and slyly take slices as our Mother finished cutting the rest. In one particular summer afternoon instance of counter-sitting and watermelon-eating, my little brother, who was about four years old at the time, looked at the watermelon and starting talking about it, with the few words he knew how to say passionately, as though it was the most beautiful thing in the world. "It's just so big!" he said, "big and bright—and it's...and it's big and bright and bright and big and big and bright!" This was quite beautiful to me, because it reminded me of the big and bright beauty of the human heart and the artistic expressions thereof. What to one person may be a simple seasonal fruit could be the biggest, brightest beauty another has ever seen. Similarly, what to one person may be offensive, overly tactful, simple minded, overthought, blunt, or reserved writing, to another could be the writing of a human mind and soul that I would call magic, as such words could be just what they needed to say to someone else or themselves in order to start anything from a generational to personal revolution of healing, brilliant, raw, vulnerable thought.

The cutting vulnerability of writers such as those mentioned above, as well as the passion of my four-year-old counter-sitting little brother, is something I've come to greatly admire. I realize that my intellect is not on par with either Hemingway or a four-year-old child, but please do bear with me as I attempt to persistently, perhaps offensively, honestly, and wholeheartedly incorporate my own unapologetic cutting vulnerability and passion in this blog by writing of what to me are the biggest and brightest ideals and inspirations of all—the things I believe to be beautiful.