“Yes, and it’s when the self no longer exists, no longer makes demands, that it joins the tree of life. And that’s what I struggle to attain. To forget oneself, and yet live so intensely.” -Clarice Lispector
To write is to question myself, always, and with no answer (except the ones that slip slowly like winter leaves from a tree, dead before recognized). I did this once, every moment my heart would swell to boiling point, or melt to oceanic depths, fingers slapping keys, attempts to capture some fleeting feeling. This led to further and further demand of myself (or the loss of it). Stripping layer after layer of the onion, that when finally down to the bulb still stalls momentary in its last armored shell, retaining some idea of what it believes itself to be. Clinging. Who? What? Are we? Yet, all I crave is to be stripped down bare, completely naked, because to me it’s the only way to be close to God. Source. Whatever, word. Purity is angelic because it is nude in its truth. But did you really want to see me? Does anyone? Perhaps, but not completely raw, so I make new clothes and try them on, pulling layers on and off depending on the strength of the breeze.
And relationship? This word, that says itself so wholly. “Relation”, to something or someone. But in order to relate one must exist, as “one”, relating to more than just itself. And what is it? Relating to what? A “ship”? A sailing ship or sinking ship? Purely context, depending only on how the watered down mind wants to perceive itself today. And so now I seek my body like an anchor. To weigh me back down into existence. So I don’t float away in the current or disappear into the light. Because to relate and relate and explain and explain in so many words: A to B to C to the infinity of logic’s evil stepmother, depletes the very essence of what my heart says is true. But anyway, I still do.
And in this moment it’s only the crying child I believe. The one without a mask so well-placed to deceive. Without questions that defeat their own answers.
And Yes, I am lost. I know. But this is where I’m home. Only existing in my body, watching thoughts flip across the page like sea foam dancing on the shape-shifting shore. Because I know, that to know you don’t know, and to seek anyway is innocence. And I never want to “know”! Not really. Not with any mind of knowing. But to feel, this I want. Because this is all that is ever real.
And what a burden! What a sack to tote! To think we know! We don’t see ourselves because we are afraid, cannot sit in silence without the projector shining a light on our stories- following them to the end of their beginnings, hoping to fulfill a wish we thought we had once when we were five and got an idea that this what “life” is supposed to be. So we don’t rest until it is lived, whether in reality or fantasy. These patterns. Stories we pretend are unique.
And this is the illusion! Is it not? Separating ourselves from one another with stories that influence so heavily our drives. So we tick tick tick trying to satisfy our aspartame receptor’s memory as reality in all it’s beauty floats on by. And there it was, and now it isn’t, and we lost, what we thought we didn’t want, but never really had anyway.
And this is the only way I can explain. To contradict. To empty myself. To weep. To breathe. And to believe! That there is no such thing as nothing, but so much more than any something. And although I cry. And wander. I am happily lost. Content with the wonder. Like a child who lets go of his balloon just to see how long it takes until it is swallowed up by space. And do not worry for me, because with all my emotion and all my screams, all of them could change, in the blink of a dream.
@thoughtless, I am glad the words struck a chord for you… I have read your life philosophy and can definitely relate. In fact it is very similar to a poem I wrote a few years ago. We are indeed the author of our own stories. I would only add this: I believe it is not life, but human drama and suffering that begins when we make a distinction between ourselves and others. We are therefore confused by things that ‘happen to us’ without recognizing we ourselves cause these things to happen. Once the separation between self and other is dissolved with love and we instead see the CONNECTION within all things, then life really begins, as we co-create and co-author with one another. This is a scary thing, as you seem to say as well, because it means having the courage to take full responsibility for yourself and how you affect others. Weeee! Any thoughts? Good luck and love to you!
You write the way an artist paints or a singer sings, expansive and self-examining, Rather ethereal as if to be vaporous and ephemeral, but solidly integrated and beset by an effusive humility. You are very dreamy, but that may be to keep an exacting discriminating scientific mind at bay. Only physically will you grow old.