I got up and conducted daily routine: face, food, hair, clothes; mundane offered little comfort in the morning of anticipation. I chose jewellery to wear with hesitance, all of the world turning, for a moment, into a quivering hand.
As doubt swamped my insides, experience told me that fright was irrelevant. Behind their eerie theater masks, stakes and odds played a minor role in the movie of facing my fate.
That day, like any other, I did the only thing I could. I got ready and gave it my all.
Many people don’t know who they are.
Then there are those who are married to established ideas of themselves and attached to others.
Majority of us, whatever our fitting on identity scale, spends the days hunting for chains, ropes and spider webs to get tangled in.
You see, in the 21st century on Earth, not being certain or at least pretending about who we are is a sin that echoes with being a loser…
(Part I – to be continued)
A specialty and a frailty, a capacity and a railing; hardly invited to ether, unwelcome to be, each person’s fashion of seeing the world was one of a kind, fascinating and blindly limiting.
Ashamed to put it on display, people wore brain uniforms instead – all glossy and adorned – restraining their inborn edges.
Once upon a time in the land of regulated frameworks, no one noticed when the Big Brother freely moved his belongings out of the living-room TV.
A filler,
a number,
an addition,
a generalization.
Anyone,
no one,
faceless,
surrogate.
No,
well not me.
I’m not here to react
unless someone called my name.
Just like existence itself, words and descriptions are elusive by nature. To be who we are and then let go, to float between immersing in it all and hiding from it all and back again, is an affair as real as it is invisible.
I saw it in a dark, dusty corner of a large hardware store filled with clutter and immediately was drawn into its world. This, for me, was common. Flower vases tell me stories that go far beyond their obvious purpose or the way they look. This one, in particular, was a factory produced squat wobbly shaped brown vase with abstract white drawings. But in spite of its commonness, my ears were in tune with the language it spoke.
I heard the story of a supporting actress, crucial to the plot yet always in someone’s shadow – a permanent bridesmaid to ever-changing brides, her appearance toned down even when glorious. As I listened to tales of loyalty and compassion, her tone rang of calmness. She knew she would once quietly fulfill her destiny nurturing others and witnessing many a spotlight.
Much about the character of reality escapes me. But carrying the bag in which she rested wrapped up in gravelly paper, I have never been more certain about being that vase myself.
That thin thread
between
growing, and remaining
learning, and letting go
dreaming, and facing
containing, and denying
believing, and releasing
remembering, and clinging
understanding, and not knowing
existing, and laboring
no one can see
or hold on to.
But within its elusive frame
is all vitality of a life.
Is it my imagination,
this new bond
transpiring,
a thread that appeared
as we met?
Is it an unfolding,
new chapter in the tale
or utterly
wishful thinking,
dressing up a daydream?
I can ponder if it’s likely
for a tie to be one-way
but even if those reveries were true
the key isn’t in my hands.
Will we meet again?
People in our life give us what’s available to them in the moment, never more and never less. Considering reasons for that sparks imagination, for imagination’s sake, remaining weightless.
No creature dresses in sameness and consistency. Likewise, no one can present what’s not with them.
And that is okay.
Times of being interlaced with conditions, then
patches of existing through memories.
What do I know?
I just show up.
It sneaked up in gentle fashion, resembling a change of seasons. From belonging to the winds, roaring along, to the place of stillness so decided, that feeling stuck became a life.
There was no joy in previous joys and no rhythm in the ticking of a clock. Hideaways were there no longer. Resistance lurked in striving not to resist and, burdened with contemplation, I fell ill. Once deep in the ground and tied to the limit, I stumbled across crumbs of relief.
Softly as it came, many moons behind time, a fading of the fog revealed that the cycle was complete. And I found that nothing was wrong with the world.
It was my own skin I had outgrown.
Reflections 