L.A.Clift

L.A. Clift, Writer. All writing posted is my own. Thank you for reading 💌

[l-a-clift]

“Why do you think we call art a form of expression?” she asked.

“Well- we capture what we find beautiful, or something we want to share,” he said.

“Ok, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? To express- think about it. Art is taking our inner worlds- thoughts, memories, fears, dreams- all of it, and setting it free.”

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“I mean, don’t you find it strange?” She asked.

“What- working?” asked her friend

“No, no. What’s strange is asking someone how they make a living- and they answer with how they work.

Sure. It’s important. But think of the words ‘make a living’- don’t you think we would be a kinder place if our first thought of living didn’t have to be money?”

[l-a-clift]

“Can’t you see? The past doesn’t exist!” she said.

Her friend held up a photograph. “What are you talking about it? Here we were two years ago-“

“No. That’s not what I mean. That’s evidence of living, sure- but I’m talking about memory. How we feel- what guides our future decisions. What haunts our present. Each day is brand new, totally unique! But we all wake up and listen to the ghosts.

We talk about the past like it’s this place we can visit at will. Events, ideas, laws set in stone.

Memory- that’s where it all lives. We are the vessels of the past, but we aren’t beholden to it. At any moment, any new day- we can change.”

[l-a-clift]

“Sometimes I wish our problems were as easy to fight as dragons in fairytales,” she said.

Her friend laughed. “I think I’d rather not.”

“But everything is so clear in those stories! You know who the villain is, how to defeat them…

In real life, people will confuse you. They’ll hurt you, or take credit for your work, but they’ll have the best intentions. They’ll be so nice as they destroy your confidence in your own thoughts.

And suddenly, you find that everyone thinks you’re the one creating the problem.

How can I go up against good intentions? Give me a dragon any day.”

[l-a-clift]

“I’ll tell you what’s killing us,” she said. “Your memory. And maybe mine, too.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t understand.”

“We can’t help it. Both of us hang on to how it used to be. The people we were when we first met— how perfect it seemed.

But I can’t be her anymore, it’s impossible. She was never real.

If we can’t see eachother for who we are, and how we’ll go on changing, maybe just being left with a dream of what was— is the best way to go.”

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“Identity is difficult,” she said. “Because we have very little to do with it.”

“What do you mean?” asked her friend. “Identity is all we are.”

“And that’s the trouble. Other people, the world, make snap decisions about me that I spend weeks trying to either prove wrong or right.

I mean— listen, I barely know who I am when I look inside! I’m an entirely different person to who I was a year ago.

But if someone shows up from my past, just like that— I’m her again. And I don’t know how to fight against that.”

[l-a-clift]

“I think the strangest feeling, as a writer, is the grief we go through,” she said.

“What do you mean?” asked her friend.

“I didn’t realize as a young artist, that I wouldn’t only feel joy when a project was done. I wish I did. It was months of work, accompanying every mundane task in thought. Writing this book was the background of my entire life.

Now- it’s written. Done. I’m happy- but I feel unmoored, with this grief taking up the space my ideas once held. I feel both freedom and fear- being lost at sea.”

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“Well, many decisions in life are very simple,” she said.

Her friend gave a short laugh. “That’s not true. There are so many things to consider-“

“Yes, and if you think of every possible outcome you’ll drown in it. For so many questions in life it boils down to this-

No, means you’ll stay the same.

Yes- means change.”

[l-a-clift]

“That’s just it,” she said. “You can’t change the past. But you can grow from it.”

Her friend stood and paced. “It’s no use. I messed up! What can I possibly gain from that?”

“Listen. Everything awful that has happened to you, every hurtful word you’ve said- it’s worth remembering. Regret is soil and guilt is rain.

Only from a field of past mistakes, does compassion grow.”

[l-a-clift]

I think one day you wake up behind your own eyes and realize, “This is it. My one chance. I am this person that I don’t always agree with, don’t understand, and barely know- but I understand. This is it.”

And another voice, smaller and deeper in the heart will wake up and whisper- “So. What will I do now?”

[l-a-clift]

“Regret is sweeter than acceptance,” she said.

“Now you’re just wrong,” her friend laughed. “Regret hurts.”

“Maybe, but it’s also safe. We can hold on to what was, pine after the choices we didn’t make— wonder ‘what if’.

Even if it’s a good possibility we’d make the same choices today given the chance to re-do it.

Regret is a sort of shining amber trapping our memories in honey. They’re safe to look at and ache over.

Acceptance is bitter. It means goodbye. It means admitting we would have acted differently, or maybe that we wouldn’t- both are hard to live with.”

[l-a-clift]

“Ideas are like flowers,” she said.

“Fragile?” asked her friend.

“No! No- they’re patient. A seed can wait years to bloom if it’s trapped under brambles of fear and self doubt. You’ve got to clear that away, bit by bit, and once your dream can see the sun and sky- it will flourish.

If you’re not ready yet, take heart. Your idea will wait patiently until you are.”

[l-a-clift]

“I think time is a feeling,” she said.

“What do you mean?” asked her friend.

“How else can you know it’s there? We must have sensed time- like rain on palms.

Sure, the sun measures a day- but what about the rest? Time is running into someone from your past and not recognizing them at first. The reason we’re still surprised at how fast children grow and are gone. The turn of the seasons- the ache for green leaves in January, and longing for cool days in August.

Time is our longing and our regrets- our wishes and memories.

I think we felt it, long before we measured it- like a sunflower following the sun.

How else did we know to start counting?”

[l-a-clift]

“That’s why grief hurts, and even love,” she said. “It’s too much for one person.”

“What do you mean?” asked her friend.

“These emotions that feel too big to hold within our own hearts— I think they’re our souls calling out to one another. Trying to reach for what’s missing, but always feeling a little disconnected.

That’s what it means to be human, I suppose.

You are the whole universe, the deepest sea and furthest stars, closed up in a ribcage and gazing at everything we belong to, trapped behind one pair of eyes.”

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“Do you think the stars get lonely?” she asked.

Her friend glanced up. “No. There are millions of them. They have each other.”

“It makes you wonder, then.” She replied with a wan smile. “With so many people on this earth- why each of us, in turn, can feel so alone.”

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“Loss is strange,” she said. “I think we need another word for it.”

“What do you mean?” asked her friend.

“Because, our lost loved ones— they don’t feel like they’re gone. Not really. It’s the opposite. Like they’re just around the bend of the path waiting for us to catch up.

I have this feeling, so often… when I think of who I’ve lost— I feel like I’m just reaching out for their hand, and any moment now, they’ll take it and ask me where I’ve been.”

[l-a-clift]

“Sometimes, memories can be kind. A warm place to rest. Other times— it’s different,” she said.

“How do you mean?” asked her friend.

“Things I used to believe were true have begun to fade. I know he said those words, the shape of his hand— what I read in his eyes. Well, I thought I knew.

Now, with so much time stretching between who I used to be, I wonder if it was all in my imagination.

Like a mirage in a desert…. I don’t trust my memory.”