Looking back on now

hind·sight /ˈhaɪndˌsaɪt/
Pronunciation[hahynd-sahyt]
–noun
recognition of the realities, possibilities, or requirements of a situation, event, decision etc., after its occurrence.

It has occurred to me to use this concept of hindsight to describe my state of being. Observe the bolded portion, then refigure: during its occurrence.

I'm doing it right now. I'm considering the ways these words could be read, what resonances they could have, what resonances they are likely to have, why I am writing them, and why I am writing them this way. You could argue that, temporally speaking, this is foresight, not hindsight, but I'm not satisfied with the connotations that lie with that description.

So, let's call it a forced (perhaps flawed) hindsight. Frequently, when anything more significant than going to my refrigerator is taking place, I find myself a step or two back from what's going on, trying to understand it from as many perspectives as I can imagine to be relevant. Hindsight is usually marked by acquiring a new perspective on an old event, and therefore finding new understanding within it. I am not independently capable of drawing a great deal of alternative perspectives, but that doesn't stop me from doing what I can. I am coming to the conclusion that hindsight is not best performed on your own, but it's difficult to receive help with this forced hindsight, because most people don't look at the moments of their every day life in this manner, and so extracting potentially relevant perspectives is a bit like drawing blood from a stone. Seems like something that I probably shouldn't force, but it's hard not to.

It's like my life is all music. Lyrical. Poetical. Not in an idealistic way, but in a meaningful way. There are poems about genocide, and poems about love. Something spoken could just sound empty and cliché, but when sung, it manages to encapsulate such moving truths, as though the rendition is so much more sincere.

I have often said, sincerity and gratitude are the best ways to describe the majority of my existence. The gratitude often manifests itself like a feeling you'd get after waking up the morning after the night you were supposed to die, only its about a lot of different things. There's just no way to fill your environment with that amount of thanks. When I try to, I get frustrated because it's an impossible task, and people suggest that I lighten up. But you have to know, I have to try, it's just too fucking big to keep inside. One day I will recite the perfect line to capture it, and maybe you'll be at hand, so it'll be totally worth it.

Every moment is meaningful to me. That's another one of those lines that sounds so cliché, but it's true. Also, I think "That's another one of those lines that sounds so cliché, but it's true" has gained the same status, actually. Kind of sad. But, this has always been about reading between the lines. Feeling the poignancy of truth wherever it lies. Not just knowing it, but feeling it. And in every moment, I am experiencing some sort of truth that means so much to me. About you, about me, about us, about the future, about the past, about what is or isn't happening. Sometimes I just get lost in that thought, that feeling, to the point where it stretches into the sensation of an enduring epiphany. Epiphanies about the simplest things that we may already know, but for me, there's no escaping how important these things are to me, simply because they are true.

I need them to be known. I need you to know them, as I know them. I need to know what they mean, or will mean, to you. I need to hear, and listen, lest the desire to do so disappear. If there is a hell, that would be mine.