Thursday, June 28, 2012

Harmony


It's been a long time since I stayed awake all night long, unable to sleep, for all those thoughts that keep coming and rolling off the mind.

There is something about change, that stirs up everything and makes it difficult to feel that solid ground again beneath your own two feet. There exists a resistance to change, akin to clinging onto your bedpost when the whole world is a hurricane.

Sometimes, nothing really happens, and yet it's all inside. Why it's there and how it got there in the first place bewilders the mind. You seek and in seeking, get lost in the maze of your own mind. Unable to retrace those steps because already your mind has left the ground and gone to the moon and back. In a flicker of an eyelash, you've gone through decades, seen tides and tsunamis, sands and thunderstorms.

In change, there is grief. A tearing apart of one thing to become another. From destruction of that which was, to acceptance of that which is now. Change can be good, but even in good there can be sorrow. How does anything make sense when sense itself is not present? And yet, it's beyond even sense, it's a flood of sensations.

We become mired in that state wherein we yearn. In wanting, the further our feet sink. It then should be understandable that when the day arrives when all comes to pass, it becomes so hard to pull out of that quagmire within we've been cemented without some semblance of pain. In attaining pleasure, we endure pain.

Only when we become an island can we learn to control our tides. With less interaction from within the heart of ourselves, it becomes easier to attain serenity. A serenity that belies the underlying currents. Those currents that seek to intertwine with similar currents. To feel a newness in sharing and merging and becoming all the more greater. For an unfamiliarity that is even more so familiar.

A confluence of two currents couldn't be calm. Only after time, when both have become so enjoined do they become relatively steady.

Likewise, the mind's ability to recompense the before and after becomes a tumultuous clashing. All the more so when it is presented with the disparity and must readjust.

Life is about change. Resistance is nature. All the acceptance in the world does not negate the need to adapt.  Sometimes we need to pull our own self out of the mud, and sometimes we get pulled out by putting out that hand and getting pulled out by that which we help pull out.

Sometimes, you lose a night's sleep so that you can watch a day begin anew.

Friday, June 08, 2012

Soulitude

There exists a time wherein I have felt suspended, as if in a bubble within which solitude was never more emphasized. I have yearned and dreamt, searched and sought, and in solitude, I have spent many a teardrop.

Solitude being the one constant from the farthest corner of memory, presenting comfort, like a blanket one clings to as a baby, as toddler and as a child. Solitude, like so much that we hold close, that becomes repugnant, instilled by a sense of dissatisfaction, by that stagnation which accompanies comfort over time, the inducement of yearning.

What is desire but seeking to complete that which is incomplete, that without which we recognize we are incomplete, that which we subconsciously understand must belong to us, that must finish what is unfinished.

What we have we do not want, yet we hold onto it all the more simply because we have it. 

When we venture out of our comfort zone into that territory we had always wished to walk upon, how is it then that it becomes so difficult to return?

In solitude, we sing with all our heart for the dreams that come into being and take form out of the silence that enshrouds.  No silence surrounds us more than in solitude wherein we hear our thoughts as loud as our own breath and our emotions as loud as heartbeat. Whether the star attraction, or the one everyone turns to for help, whether the one with the loudest laugh, or the widest smile; whether the one with the most friends, or the one alone lost in thought while everyone walks ahead, no matter where we are or where we go, it is with solitude. It is solitude that whispers to us: there is always something missing.

What we have we do not want, yet even when we let it go, it remains because it has always been ours.

When there are so many hearts who seek the same comfort, another soul to somehow share that solitude, how does it then become so hard to let go of it? We come to the crossroad of deciding whether to hold onto one or the other - solitude, and therefore security, or the fulfillment that comes with togetherness.

We learn that when we must make this decision with conscious thought, no sooner it exists than it dissipates, and we plunge again into that from which we emerged. With how hard we fall each time, we sink further into the abyss, and the harder it becomes to remove the doubt that we will ever escape.

But what is it that we wish to escape? That which we want most has always been with us. In solitude we learn to crave that which we understand we lack, and yet with the essence of every need, the essence of every dream, the essence of every dream that shattered and broke, out of the essence that has accompanied us through each waking moment and every dream we have dreamt, the purpose for which we have been seeking, that in itself has been part of who we are, who we have been and who we will become.

Fulfillment is not in the dispatch of solitude. When we realize that it is ours, it is as if it has always been. Everything we have always dreamt of becomes so enmeshed with the essence of being that even when you walk away from it, it belongs to you. It is an existence wherein there is no start; it merges and intertwines so naturally that it becomes impossible to know where and how it began and impossible to measure how much it quantifies, all you know is that is incontrovertibly a part of you and all that you are.

It defies explanation yet is understood. It escapes the grasp of words, and yet, in solitude, I have tried.

There is a fulfillment that belongs to us. Sometime over the horizon, or behind the clouds. Sometimes it is is your teardrop that has fallen on their head as rain. It is in solitude that you miss it, crave it, and in that absence, it has always been with you.

Thursday, June 07, 2012

Unsaid

There is nothing left for me to say. Everything has changed.

 The light turns red. The bird stops in mid-flight to land on a lamp post. The queue of vehicles empty out of the lane, traffic whizzes by. The light turns green. How can it all go on? How can it be the same anymore?

 Words. They are only words. Finished exams, instructions manual. How to save the world. Words to stop wars. Words that start peace. Words that rip you, piece by piece. What is unsaid remains unsaid, but how can you make words unsaid?

 Hit the delete button. Cross it all out. Rip it to shreds. Shoot out your brains, forget it all. Become forgotten. Sit on the back bench of a crowded bus and watch the world go by. Become so invisible you forget your own name. I am no more, therefore I cannot think. 

Hit a bump and the ink scrawls across the page, an unfinished word. Hi, I said to a face forgotten. Stop being you because you are a problem. You have no words that need to be said, nor words to be written nor words to be read. You have no voice, no reason to speak out. Stop being whoever you think you once were, silence yourself. Be gone. And the reflection faded.

 The light turned red. There was no queue, explained by the flutter of yellow tape. The light turned green. There was no traffic. The light turned red. No longer lost in the midst of a crowd that now looked on. The light turned green, there was no birdsong that could out-sing the wail of the siren. There upon the winds a cascade of pages flying free. The light turned red. There was not a word that remained, there was nothing left to say.