Looking at the present moment and behind in the past I can see clearly there is a incompleteness when it comes to love. Any kind of experience left something to be more. It was merely a promise for something bigger and better. Even the most intense sensations were glimpses with no actual fulfillment. Even the most intense feeling of connection was a bridge between two mountains but not the earthquake that brings them together for eternity. There is always separateness and incompleteness. The estranged always creeps in to tell the truth.
All this brings to attention that not only things fade out and perish but the whole of human emotion, leaving the clue that humanity itself is down-trending since all of us are feeling most of the time powerless and always proved too fragile.
Still in me there always was a thirst for the absolute, for completeness, for eternity. This makes life hard to adapt to. This makes life and the whole world to be an undesirable event, a dis-gracious experience. What is there to do? It seems that I am playing destiny without my acceptance. Right now coming to “Losers Anonymous” chapter.
Having seen already what is on the other side I want a serious way out. I know, something as serious as a heart attack. Not as a suicidal desire but like a mercy granted by the destiny game owner.
They always seem to be around. Most of the time I am wondering something. There are no adequate answers. Perhaps this is proof that the world is not perfect and to describe it in a more practical manner I would venture to say that it is really not functional. Or perhaps this is just a justification that arises from my incapability to adapt to this world. Lately I keep discovering that everything turns to shit. The many things that I looked upon with wonder and found inspiring are now crooked limitations. I can hardly find someone or something to learn from. But it can be too much to ask for. Instead, I am now looking for some simple, unadulterated kindness. And this is still so hard to find. Is it me or the world that needs love? Need, a word with the strangest definition. Do I really need love or do I really need death? In the last couple of days it becomes more important than other aspects just because I don’t know which one brings more freedom from the less functional world.
For kissing it is a world of difference.
The wetness is a substance. But what lies beyod it? Is is lust? love? excitement? fear? surrendering? getting lost? getting found? a travel perhaps? violence? life? urge? hypocrisy? melting? a lie? becoming one? a show?
Maybe. However the best answer is the one that is so intense it produces great difficulty in being expressed. It is the inexpressible source of experience. And it tends to be a very individual endeavour. It is a painting with a unique style – and if you look closely, it is the style that actually stands out. It tells a story you can never hear, it shows you something you can’t see. It is sentiment.
Kissing is a work of art in itself. In the art of reality. Not a copy of an idea; not an offspring of a prime. And it contains so many intricate details. It tells so many stories. It is creation in real time. It is a gourmet dish. My favorite ingredients are: innocence, beauty, intensity, heart, soul and copious amounts of saliva – all parts in equal quantities from two sources.
This is with me for two days. A feeling that I was forced into knowing intellectually from an early age but it has unfortunately blossomed into an emotional reality. I have reached the middle point, the tipping point of my life. It is a knowing that the struggles of going uphill are now gone. I’m at the tipping point. Not somewhere where in some sort of wishful linearity it will change the meaning, color or substance but in a way where it will be the same, it will have the same clarity and the same character. What changes is the rushing uphill into some unknown with hope or even optimistic perspective. There will be no more of that. It is all changed to a downhill movement. There is no anxiety for a bright future. There won’t be one. From now on all goes down the hill in a very predictive way. There will be worrying about the speed and its repercussions but other than that… it is quite simple; the time will pass faster. There is no need to fight anything or anyone, there is no rush, no greed, no glory. There is no need for games or hate. I never knew this is possible but when you emotionally see the end in sight all becomes different. The meaning of it changes. It is all the same but the perspective is different. All the small things that used to bother me now have no meaning. I feel more mature than ever. Probably this is the first step to being old. Or maybe this is actually being old. I felt old so many times, mostly in my childhood. But this is different. This is an slightly undesired maturity. Why undesired? Well, we all know what lies at the bottom of the hill and the fact that I sort of skipped the childhood does not help. Other than that, it has some very sweet sense of freedom. And part of me gets some relief from it. You feel how short the life really is and you know so deeply that love and kindness is all that matters. The rest is all madness.
Caught as a glimpse in the discontinuity of a dream, there it was: the full bright me. Hidden but nevertheless more true than the nasty illusions. Brighter than the midday sun, more glorious than the dawn of a summer day, infinitely more than anything ever known to a human heart. Despite the pain, the struggle, the drag of a limiting body, despite the smothering of a human society and its rules and hierarchies, there it is: the absolute freedom of being. Nothing compares to it. There is no poetry to barely hint its beauty. All of any human language can do to describe it is like having a bad and sketchy black and white representation of a breathtaking landscape. Nothing can encompass the glory, the generosity, the absolute, the unlimited, the floating immensity that it is.
Having known it, how can any human endeavour stop being a chore, a limitation and an intransigent relativity? How can you stop feeling trapped, imprisoned and tortured? When will another human being reciprocate the infinite love that you truly are? When will a small part be as full as the whole?
It is all tearing me apart but so far without releasing me.
I am wondering: why do people need to write?
My take on it is that it is done for the same reasons people have sex. There are so many similarities. People do it because they have a romantic idea about it that was seeded by some wave of emotional questionable erudition. Some others because they are copying other people. Some to solve childhood problems. Some to fill a void regardless of the other people involved – sometimes the relationship with the public is totally neglected. Some to demonstrate skill or performance. Some because they find it so natural they just feel the need to do it, no explanations needed.
Watching closely, there are many explanations for a single word. Just one word. Like a single word creates a world of its own. Its own universe with self defined existence.
But as anyone who reads pieces of great literature, finds the words of the writer limited expressions of an inexpressible universe that reigns far superior to any language that can ever be created by the human race.
It is in this spaceless space and timeless moments that pure existence resides and it is so strong and powerful that there just isn’t a way to even marginally express it.
So, having known this, what is the point of books when pure existence overshadows them all? It looks like simple toys for psychiatric patients. Or maybe this is the human condition; struggling beings waiting for a droplet of divinity to ease the pain of getting stuck and exhausted in the mud of existence.
Why is it that I have so many deep emotions of a grand future? Why is it that I feel I am going to be tremendously happy and fulfilled?
This happened all my life like a prophetic dream waiting to unfold. But it seems that it never happens. And as Chuck Palahniuk says in “Fight Club” about the middle children of history (“We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war… our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.”) I am starting to feel very, very pissed off. All my feelings that are to precede a major destiny shift to great happiness seem to always precede an actual hell. A living hell. Like going to bed with “floating on a cloud” simple but profound peace only to wake up in the middle of the night with the living horror of a bad dream. What happened in between? Where did all went off to totally unthinkable madness? Like feeling you are a good person, with good intentions and good deeds only to be shaken into this surprisingly new standard where all of a sudden you are judged and sentenced to a criminal offence you have never committed. And as absurd as it might sound you begin to ask yourself where is the miracle that you are? Maybe this is what hurts more. Knowing that you are a miracle despite all the broken bones, the broken heart, the broken spirit. Yes, this hurts more than broken bones, than broken heart, than broken spirit. Although you can only stop to feel the broken bones or the broken heart or the broken spirits. Or all three at once. All this pain can never numb the inner knowing that you deserve better. That you are better. That you are more. That you are love.
I am a lot older than I ever thought I would be. I don’t know if this is because of age or because I never truly lived and just now I came to realize it.
Today I can say I am sober. But in more ways than one. Yes, in the basic sense this day completes a cycle of 14 years since I decided I would not be drinking again. Actually the decision was to take a 10 year break from that poison called alcohol. 14 years later it still is a very good decision. I escaped not only the poisoning but the thirst and the people I considered my best friends. It is kind of funny how we consider the booze the nasty stuff. But the nasty stuff that we actually need to let go of is the illusion created by appearances.
They are your best friends because you feel really connected to them and you feel them close to you, especially if you throw a couple of beverages in. I am looking back and that illusion dissolves. Them calling you their best friend they ever had transforms from a proud statement into a lie. Where were they when I needed them? Where were the money I lent them when my poor mother had the most excruciating matches with cancer? They were not there when they should have been without me asking. They were not there when I asked. They still want to be friends – they feel this would be polite.
And how can she be still breathing when she threaten she will kill herself if I leave her? It was nothing but the illusion a psychopath created. She was nothing but a shell full of sin throwing lust around like a mercenary throws a knife, only deadlier.
Being sober from alcohol is a good thing. You see a lot of things clearly; it brings you a surprising feeling of freedom. But nothing beats being sober for the truly important stuff: discerning true affection. The cutting through the appearances to the bottom of it. It no longer needs to look pretty. It has to bear good fruit. A she can no longer enter my good graces with fake lips, fake breasts or lustful intentions. The hotness and the prestige are now degrading scales. The blinding wanting is removed by the feeling of its outcome. The world becomes very simple. It’s the simple things that I want: a touch of beauty, a gust of purity, a dribble of generosity and some unworldly roots.
I keep thinking about the speed and what the world is like now. There were times a couple of hundred of years when people did not have the means to produce in a fast manner the needed goods. It all took a lot of time and a lot of skill.
Here we are in the present where we have so much technology and access to resources. All is done with great speed. But strangely enough we are always out of time. We tend to do a lot of things and we do them fast but the question remains: why don’t we have time? And when you ask questions like these you start noticing that you live in the midst of a chaotic construct. The inertia of the world got you spinning in the same direction and at the same speed. But do you need it? How much time are you allowing yourself to be staring at a piece of glass? We are always on facebook or some other sort of social media, exubering presence for individuals who don’t care about you. We call it fun but are we really happy? We laugh at silly cats or whatever amusing pieces of information people overshare but for how long? Not for very much time. We need to change the focus and the mood almost instantly to cope with some other aspect of the chaos we call our life. A lot of switching back and forth. No wonder bipolar disorder is so common these days.
So we got all the technology and the resources we might need but we are not happy. We don’t have time. And still we have a lot of homeless people and a lot of crimes.
There are quite a few books that are dated thousands of years old. They don’t necessarily describe technology or means for living. But they all have some kind of stories or legends about people having conflicts. It is strange that we are thousands of years apart and we seem to have the same problems.
So what is the use of it all? All the hassle and bustle of being busy and using technology and comfort if the main theme of conflict prevails? How can we call ourselves civilised if we continue to have armies? Who are going to fight against? Ourselves? All the greatness of building and manufacturing but still the common theme is people hating their job. It is so fake and we behave as if we like it. But we don’t. How else we would explain depression and suicide? Or the addictions? We all look for an escape but never would we work together to create one. Then we get pissed and write about it aimlessly on some blog hoping no one will read.
Mda… șuvoiul. Asta e ecoul zgomotului interior. Prima definitie este cea preluata automat din copilarie. Cred ca intelesul este aproape automat. Intelegi si mai ales simti sensul cuvantului atunci cand privesti acea aglomerare de apa care se misca cu repeziciune.
Intr-un un mod introvertit si introspectiv te gandesti la o molecula de apa din acel amalgam vijelios. Te identifici cu acea molecula si te simti impins, aruncat si rasucit intre multe alte molecule. Offf… ganduri de copil curios care pretuieste timpul si exploreaza.
Ajungi multi ani mai tarziu sa te simti exact acea molecula. Doar ca șuvoiul este viata ta iar celelalte molecule sunt oameni ca si tine prinsi intr-o valtoare necontrolata.
Aceasta este reprezentarea unui parcurs. O definitie metaforica. Nu al unui fapt deosebit de fizic si de natural. Ci a unei emotii. Cea a neputintei, a mainilor legate, a mersului incatusat, a miscarii lipsite de libertate. Dar mai ales a gandurilor care te piseaza si te involbureaza si te rascolesc; si in fata carora nu ai nici un control. Ca niste oaspeti nepoftiti care te hipnotizeaza. Ca un sarpe de care nu iti este frica dar care te musca si te amorteste cu veninul sau.