To The Lighthouse

Within me, the belief is gaining ground that perhaps all joy is ultimately an act of visualisation.

By this measure, Virginia Woolf should have been a happy woman but her life's facts do not corroborate my nascent belief.

She could with her frugal writing, in a few broad strokes, create a picture so exact and haunting, one is forced to think that her favourite pastime was to amuse herself. Then why did she get bored of life?

Her disease was an affliction that many creative people share- swining from violent joy to despairing grief

I plan to read her seminal novella - To The Lighthouse tomorrow.

I read it once a long time ago but not fully.

I am exhilirated at the prospect of going to the lighthouse. It seems at times I am James lying on the floor, cutting pictures from a catalogue.

I am Lily Briscoe sitting in front of the canvas, brush heavy with colors but unable to daub much. It will take me a decade to finally complete the painting.

I am Mr. Ramsay, inspiring oedipal storms of hatred in my little son's mind but a decade later, congratulating him on his seamanship though I still do not trust it in the heart of hearts.

and I am the lighthouse, alternating between darkness and light.