Ilness and Dreams

First, I should warn you. I am feverish, at the moment. Mostly sick. Just trying to by some time. And, in doing so, stumbled upon something interesting.

But, as you have been warned, don't judge too harshly the style and vernacular in which it is written. I probably could have done a much more fantastic job were I well. But, this is what you get anyway.
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I read today, in a gardening magazine of all places, about Ianus - the Roman god after which the first month of our year is named. He was the god of gates, doorways, beginnings, endings, and time. He was a two-faced god, facing both forward and backward. Both to the past and the future.

I can see why the first month of the year was named after him.

Then I thought: how often, during this month of January, am I doing just that? Staring at the past and watching the future? It struck me because currently, I am feeling just that. A nervous tension over what to do. A question over what I have done and what it could mean.

And, not only now. I have been here before. Just yesterday of last year, in fact. Read, if you will, the post: What I'm Learning.

There are probably others, if I were to go back in time further from now. Each new year, during each month inspired by the two-headed man who stands watching, looking, seeing. Not doing, but knowing.

So, January is for looking, seeing, and thinking. Then, February comes with the purification ceremonies and the lavender hung in houses to clear the air. And the actions that our watching in January led us to.

Or, perhaps not so much the action, but the preparation of the action. The cleansing of the old, a readiness for the new. Trashing what you don't need, organizing what you do - or think you do at this current junction. Making room for what is to come. Whatever that might be.
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I had a dream in my sickness this morning. In it, three of us (Ori, Fai, myself) were waiting for the public transportation to come - a bus in particular. Just sitting around, bying time, doing nothing remarkable, goofing off kind of kid style. Ori had to go to the bathroom and had to go down the block a ways. Then, the bus passed by and we thought it was the right bus so Fai went to go get Ori. Then, we both realised the bus was going the wrong direction, so we let it pass.

When Ori came back, we wasted more time. Then, after a while, Fai had to go to the bathroom. But, he found one just across from us. So, he left. Right after he left, the train came. Ori and I got on without a thought, and left Fai behind.

Fai caught up to us on the train, somehow magically. He told us off. We felt really stupid and rude. Heads hung low, all that. Then, suddenly we were all standing around with a bunch of people. I was leaning against someone I didn't know, and suddenly realised it, but she was cool so there was no issue.

Then, suddenly, the transit train was a real train and we were traveling across the country, or some long distance. You know how dreams are. And the group had gotten bigger, again, now five of us or so. Too many to really know for sure. Lots of people milling around.

The train officials were checking our tickets and making sure we belonged, which they decided we did. I was trying to be very proper. And, then Ori's sister was there and she started judging whether we were all mature enough. When it got to me, the discussion turned into a debate of possessions and how much we should all have and how much of it should be from big corporate stores. I said that Ori and I had gotten rid of most of our stuff, and we thought it was better. And we tried to buy less.

In the end, I think we agreed.
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So, all that might possibly be saying something. But, possibly about this idea of January and February.

But, then again, I also had a dream where Ori and I were boating down a river with my mom instead of driving down the road. We had to get out and swim occasionally, but nobody minded. And then, we got to some park and nothing happened.

So, maybe they're just dreams after all. And all it says is what's on my mind while the fever breaks.

But, something imaginative in me hopes that not all of them are. That, occasionally, one dream stands out from the muck of all the other nonsense and means something. And, if you just look closely enough, you'd find a key to your future and all the hopes and dreams you had. Or, you will find a map of your fears and terrors so that you can trump them and move on. Or, that the dreams really can tell the future and can warn you of possible dangers and hangups. Or, that they are the key to everything.

But, that's probably just a writer's hope in the possibility of images and interpretation. Because, then again, there are still those dreams that you don't want to interpret or admit might mean anything at all. We all have those too.

Control

Two mirror images, exactly the same, but replicated in reverse.
In opposite.
The relief of one another.

And from the dust of it, we emerge experienced, knowing, smarter, wiser. Because when you jump into the ocean, you are going to get crashed by the waves. And when you think you can swim against them, you are going to get thrown to the ocean floor, upside down and wondering why you can't breathe and will you ever find the air or the surface or what you once knew was real ever again.

The answer is yes. And you will learn to respect the ocean or die at it's hands. Because you can only survive when you remember what you are dealing with. You can only last when you recall the power of the current and let it pull you when you decide to step into it.

So, for my part, I am going to respect the ocean. I have felt its strength in the storm, and I have no plans to tempt it again or look out at the placid sea, thinking, I can conquer that - I can own that - I can know that.

The waves flow as they flow, and in the midst of it, I cannot know. With more experience and knowledge, I could. Others can. Others do. And, unless they are beside me, I will fear the ocean. Show respect for the current. Be wary of the depths. Because I do not know how to swim in waters like these, and I'd prefer not to learn by drowning first.

Flailing, terrified, sweating. Unknowing, unknown, alone. Searching, struggling, scrabbling for some stronghold that was not there. Clutching desperately only to you - who was drowning too.

And yet, in its way, this too was good.

We did not drown. We are here, breathing, our hearts still beating.
And the terror of the moment has brought a stark reality before my eyes. Of community. Of necessity. Of watchfulness. Of companionship. Of relationship. Of honesty and truth and forthright forthcomingness. Of seeing in an clouded way the difference between situation and circumstance. Feeling as I feel my skin, the moment - the now. This second. Comprehending the difference between the mind and the tangible. Between the past and the future and this.

And also, of knowing where and how the bad goes down. And how the bad is always at the door. Just the same as the good. Only, we know it and feel it and experience it different. Only we are different, and so then is everything.

In that, there is an infinite comfort. Like words. Which remind me even now that this is the same as that. That just as we are happiness and sorrow, we are high and we are low. Pain and joy. Suffering and jubilation. Weakness and strength. Fear and calm. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Well and ill. Sane and lost.
For we are all things, and we choose how we manifest.

This fits in with the symbology, if you didn't know. Consider it. The path of honesty is hedged by danger and the route through is vigilance and a readiness to act. An unwavering vision of the true. Because, we choose how we manifest.

There are no accidental choices. No falling into the bad. No stumbling into the wrong. We choose and for whatever reason, we choose wrongly. Or ineptly. Or inadequately. Or foolishly. Or, just selfishly. But, we always choose and we always know the cost of what we have decided. Whether we will face it or no.

I, however, in the face of all of this, choose to face it. And decide to choose mroe carefully. Mindfully. Watchfully. Like a sentinel on the edge of the night. Watching for hate to come so I can stave it off.

A Cynical Revelation

I used to complain a lot in the form of theorizing, philosophizing. I used to sigh and huff and pout a lot in the form of writing poetry, lyrics that had no songs, meters that had no rhyme, rhymes that had no aim. I used to think a lot about myself in the form of hoping for the world.

Perhaps, I am still guilty.

To be honest, I assume I must be. Since here is the same place I have been since then, and this is the same thing I have been saying. Since all of my revolution, revolt, chaos, anarchy bullshit is probably just a nihilistic pouring out of my unhappiness. Just a new way to complain. A new way to whine. A new way to bitch about how I haven't gotten all the things I thought I wanted.

Or, perhaps, it is more than that.
Albeit, still naive.

Because there will be no revolution. There can't be. The forms we have now will persist, just as the cynics claimed they would. The systems we, at some point, established have devised a fool-proof way of taking control, and they will continue on the same course at all costs. Were the apparent forms of now to crumble, we would have a military state for a while, until the structures were rebuilt. Then, just as before, the system would reassert itself, retaliate, take stronger hold.

Technology is a monster the industrial era birthed without thinking it through. Advancement and the dumbing down of humanity is a force we now cannot rival with. Convenience is a commodity we will not even consider living without.

Don't get me wrong. The world, the power-holders will change at some point. But they will only be replaced by more power-hungry dictators who will take the reigns and drive us into the ground just as hard, if not harder. The rich will always be getting richer, the poor will always be with us. And the middling ones will always think they know better, while secretly only desiring to be the rich.

We are utterly cyclical. We have gone nowhere in 100 years. In 2000 years. In a billion years. More complex, yes, and more self-serving. Better and more efficient at death and destruction.

So, what is the use?

We are just complaining in high language. Just adding flourishes onto our disgruntledness. Putting fancy accents on our despair. Guilding our addictions in gold and layering our guilt in vapid gratification and painting our faces with lead paint.

Possibly, there is a higher, more vague purpose. A sort of transcendence. A seeing through the systems to the truth.

Or, perhaps that is just our mind's way of dealing with the intolerable reality that, as humans, we are an idiotic race full of loneliness and torment. That we are driven to kill, maim, and hurt one another. That we only seek personal pleasure above all else. Even through this concept of "transcendence" and "selflessness".

Isn't this where philosophers have gone and never returned from? Isn't this where cynicism and atheism have gone and made a vacation of? Isn't this where hope and a bright future fall out from under us like a trap door?

Consider this: all of the terrible predictions of our race dictated by those who had claimed to have "seen the truth" have not come true. We have not blown up the earth with nuclear warheads (yet). We have not pillaged every last resource (yet). We have not cut ourselves off from reality so much so that we can no longer walk freely in the open air (yet).

And, we probably won't. Some tiny, minor thing - probably said by someone who has transcended into the truth - will put us off it and we will only continue to poison ourselves slowly, diluting our real nature and trading it in for cheap substitutes. Never really knowing the full impact. Simply wasting away quietly, inmagnificently. Neither great nor evil. Just rather mediocre.

And time will carry on and the systems will change hands. And tomorrow will, for the most part, look just the same as today.

So, what is the point?

The point is that, regardless, we are all still connected to everything. And when we are shit, so is everything. So, we probably shouldn't be so goddamn shitty. That's all. Nothing else to it. Just that when we suck, so does the universe. And that's pathetic. And we could do so much better.

An Experiment with Symbology

Most moments don't strike us. They simply glide past unnoticed, unnoticeable. Unremarkable. Like the impermanence of time and space and tangible reality - one breath they are before us, and the next they're gone.

But some hit us in the gut, stand out from the muddle of colors and lights and shapes and textures of our day-to-day lives like a shock from a live wire. Within those - those one or two that matter to us, that mark some point in our life, that point out some fork in the road we might possibly be able to take for a change - is the key to our understanding of existence and our transcendence from the murk of tradegy and destruction.

You can generally tell when one of those moments is coming. Leading up to it is an intense feeling of unease, anxiety, or restlessness. A sense of edgy eagerness. A lack of being settled. Unrest. Unnerved. On the edge of our seat for some reason we cannot explain. A tenseness in our back and shoulders, an unconscious furrow in our brow. A hastiness that, most likely, was not there before.

In those moments preambling the shock, what we need is patience. The wind is about to blow. You can feel it in your marrow. The earth is about to shake. You can hear the vibrations off in the distance, growling like a freight train coming toward you. But, you cannot change its course or speed its approach. It will come when it comes. We must wait.

Waiting has always been the worst part for me. Standing on the edge of some ledge, just pacing and pacing and pacing. Debating what should be done when what there was to do was little - or worse still, nil. Arguing over what choice to make when the choice was inconceivable still. Wondering, pondering, fretting over what the wind would feel like when it blew and in which direction it would come from.

Then, to my dismay - when it blew, I always knew. And, to my relief, I would always move. Who can stand still when the storm is about you? Who can sit motionless when the earth is tossing you? Who cannot stand up when the wind is whipping at your face and back?

And yet, I still could not wait.

Let the dawn and the light and the revelation come now, I would say then. Impetuously. Persistently. Impatiently. I have not changed. Even now, I am shivering with anticipation of some wind I can hear off in the distance. Some change that is necessary for continued existence, continued peace, continued pursuance of reality and truth and enlightenment.

I need only to wait and see with eyes unclouded. Then, perhaps this personal angst can be for a larger, grander change. For something like the revolution to begin. Or, for the chaos already cracking around us to set in. Or, possibly, for the final starvation of this insatiable capitalistic, technological, consumeristic, hyper-speed beast.
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Here is a symbolic answer to the question: "What am I, what are we waiting for?" Take it for what you will. It is, after all, only a reading of my own patterns and internal perceptions.

The problem is a conflict between introspection and outward hope. Between withdrawing from the world on a search for guidance and a desire to find a new connection, a new partnership. Solitude crossed with a bringing together of opposites.

Leading up to now, we've delighted in a sense of companionship, a celebratory dancing as we built this connection. In doing so, you and I have learned to rely on one another. To function as one. And, for a while, it was jubilation. But now, the previous solace of being just one small pinpoint of light in the world is beginning to feel like an isolation. Where is the larger connect? Where is the "community", though the word fails us socially?

Subconsciously, we know that we have the power, influence, even authority to do the right thing. To know the right choice. And, were we to follow that feeling full-through, we would find the truth. Openness. Honesty. A death of pretenses and deceit. The forthrightness we have been craving in a community, in a union beyond our mingled-up self. An honesty and intelligence that would lead us all to deeper truths and inner strength.

So, the next step is clear, really. The only way to reach said end is to foster a constant vigilance, a preparedness. To keep constant watch over the present. To prevent any possible attacks that might sidetrack us.

And yet, there is hesitation. In our eyes, from a spiritual poverty, blocking the way. A spiritual poverty caused by material troubles, "hard times" or at least the idea of there being hard times, of ostracization, exclusion. Insecurity at its best born from a material fear of lacking what is necessary.

Others, however, see a different conflict. From outside, there could possibly be a balance, a strange but beneficial match, a potentially good union. Although, it appears possibly romantic, while not necessarily. And yet, dangerous for just that reason. We must determine our values before moving forward, others fear. A possible neglect of reality and a falling into temptation could result. Leaving us struggling with choices, possibly even losing an "innocence" we had prior.

However, all that could be taken with a grain of salt, taken at face value, taken as a careful warning to make good choices as we move forward. Which is never a bad idea.

Because in order for this community to form, for this bond to work, for this situation to end in truth and not in despair -we must have a strong sense of morality and truth. A preparedness to spring into action at just the right moment. Keeping with us always wisdom, thoughtfulness, and a memory of the past - of where we have been. Of the jubilation of successful companionship before, and a potential jubilation yet again, though multiplied. A careful balance of night and day - of opposites, of differing attributes, opposite yet complimentary.

What if the course is too steep, the cost too great, you ask.

Well, should we not take on the challenge; should we sit on our hands instead, the outcome is bleak. A desperate scrambling for control. An all-around sense of adversity to change and a denial of weaknesses. A possessiveness and limiting of ourselves. Obstruction of the truth.

So, shall we carry on? Shall we follow the wind with haste when we feel it?
I think let's. It has never led me astray before.

Technology is Advancement!

Clearly, it is not. Please find as a perfect example the four posts below.

Out of order, nonsensical drivel cut up into little slivers of communication. Just like the rest of our social interactions. Bits and pieces that you can casually sip down without any real commitment.

I thought to fix the previous posts, but no. There is no remedy for the truncated, disabled nature of our society. For the third-grader level of information spread. Over-saturating us with ridiculously useless information given in a format that renders it utterly flimsy.

Congratulations technology, you have ruined my creative licence and slit the throat of my muse. Carry on. Soon, the whole world will fall.

(4/4) Just like the rest of our technologically superior and yet utterly truncated society.

Dammit.

(3/4) almost definitely have to fix this post on the computer. Thereby rendering this new, fascinating technological advance completely useless and superfluous.

(2/4) miniscule thumb-keys of my phone in order to accomplish something.

It, as always, is really fucking complicated. Let's just leave it at that. I will

(1/4) This is a new technological experiment. I'm not even sure this is acceptable. But, probably worth a try. Or, definitely - since I am here, tapping on the

The wind in the trees or water under the bridge

The mirror was clear before, or so we would have claimed. A bright reflection of our faces just as we knew them shimmering back at us. A perfect replica of the scene seen from two slightly differing angles. Two forms standing motionless, side-by-side, examining - not the future - but the present moment. Two sets of eyes watchfully, carefully deducing which way there was to go. In order to make the best possible move, we would have said.

But, we had grown so accustom to staring into a mirror that we had, perhaps, forgotten it was a replication all along.

And now, smoke and fog and mist have drifted before us and blurred the imaginary reality. Reminding us that it was a reflection - a perception after all. So that, as we stand in the midst of it, we can feel both winter and spring on our skins. Both death and a resurrection from. Both an end and a beginning. Both the darkness and the light.

So that when it clears, our eyes can be bright and wide again. And the world around us much clearer, crystalline. As though we've seen it now, for the first time. And the reflection in the mirror can be seen for what it was - a copy of the truth. A speckled, blotted, sketchy version of the space we had. And into it, a light is shone, bounding from its glinting surface into our eyes. Blinding us from the stare we held so long.

Should we turn, we would face reality. Should we turn, we would see the room wherein which we are, and the mirror. Should we turn, we will find the road is harder than it seemed. Should we turn, we could find ourselves capable of walking, now.

And yet. As it clears, something lingers. Some phantom scent or feeling. Some longing of something lost. A space we had pretended we had not seen. A definition we had left undefined. A word we had left unspoken.

Community, commune, group. Karass, cooperation, collegue, co-worker. Relationship, family, partner, cohabitation? All taken and all wrong.

Then, what? An instant, a moment, a circumstance, a situation? Perhaps.
Or, a movement just beginning.

Do you see it? The air and the mind and the thoughts and the way all clearing before us?

We could change this world were we to actually try.
Leave this cave and take down the beast. Leave this pathetic celebration of our marvels and our accomplishments and the death we have brought on our heels and in our bags and on our backs. Leave all of this false reality, all of this reflection, all of this illusion.

Leave the isolation and, together, take down the devil.

Or, sit on our hands and let the gods of hatred have this world.
We can still have Mars, I suppose.

I give us ten years.

Soul-split, it would seem

Nothing poetic or socially stirring today. Nothing revolutionary to change the face of the future. Just a contemplation that has been rattling around in my head the last few days. Or, perhaps it was already there, and I was avoiding it. Or, perhaps, it had only manifested itself in an expressible manner in the last few hours. Either way.

At times, I feel like Asher - split up, spliced. But not into a million bits and ends - nothing fantastic like that. Just a couple of odd pieces that I can't seem to seam back together.

It isn't as though it's impossible, just complicated.

I wonder, at times, if it isn't the conflict of intro- versus extroversion. As if half of me were wanting to be plain, open, honest, clear. But the other half would rather sit in a chair quietly with nothing to say.

Part of it, I'm sure is a lingering shyness which, I would think, many of us had. Especially those who grew into the "no stranger" era of our current society. Those who you did not know were not potential friends or people with names and lives of their own. People you didn't know were the threat - potential murderers and rapists and kidnappers who had malicious intent. Uttering a hello or indulging their conversation could potentially and would most likely end your life.

And partially, the craft is to blame. Words, written on a page, carefully thought out, planned, manipulated to be just the expression you were searching for. This is where I have always found true expression. Since I first found words, pencil and paper eager to listen and receive the concepts and ideas and outflow that no-one else had the time of day for - I was free. Free to the expressions of a youth that seem ridiculous to the grown. Free from the bounds of social expectation. Free to be who and how and what I willed so long as I could forge it from the pieces and shards of language. And so, I learned and I practiced and I became good at being evident, clear. Hell, even raw, ragged, honest. I could open my chest and not bleed. I could open my soul and not shrink. And so, I took to the flick of graphite to perfect myself.

This, I thought, would be wholly effective.

But now, after so many years of pouring heart and soul on the page, into the text box, out into the world for others to see and engage with - I have struck a problem. A strange disconnect that I have yet to be able to explain between text and person. Between writing and relationship.

It's complicated. As usual.

Time, it seems to me, moves too fast. A conversation can last a heartbeat, can flash on and off within a matter of eye-blinks. And in those flashes, I have to formulate responses. But not just a response - a clever, interesting, engaging response. Something witty to keep the listener listening, some fascinating tidbit to keep the conversation moving. Something true to spur on the relationship.

And if it so happens, as it tends to, that I have nothing to say? The air becomes clogged with this thick viscous liquid that only further stoppers up my thoughts. Leading to an inevitable landslide of awkwardness.

In person, I can be very awkward.

And so, until recently, I took to hiding in the caves of the written word. Where, if I am uncertain, I can pause, contemplate, debate, analyse. Continue on when I am ready. Fully prepared to convey the meaning. Sometimes even here, I am ineffectual, but not to worry. 95 percent of the craft of writing is in redrafting, editing, rewriting, fixing. Making the words I previously chose warp and shift and become what I intended them to be. Changing my muddle into a beautiful manifesto.
That has been my unalterable and infinite solace.

And yet.
There is another half now that now has awoken within. That craves expression. That I am no good at handling or shaping. Much less expressing.

So, I have this book that talks about personalities. It's premise is a fairly broad split into four categories, types of people if you will. Two of the factors on a persons way of being, it claims, are fairly irrelevant when examining the deeper laws of spirituality and functionality. How you gain your engery - in private or in trove, and how you function daily - in a structure or more free-flowing. I would agree for the most part.

The book extrapolates on this by relating how, as a person grows, they find themselves changing, shifting from one of these irrelevancies to another. Making these two concepts more fluid, more alterable. A person may be on the same journey their whole life and constantly be flopping between order and chaos, or between private and public. More often than not, a person will eventually chose one that is most comfortable and/or beneficial and/or complimentary to said person's chosen path of life.

I can see that. But, it might be more instrumental than was thought. This is my problem. I feel a split, a solid break, a long thin crack in my ways of being. Have I been functioning as one type all along when, in reality, I have a better tendency to the other? Or, is it that I have found a unique balance between the two based on necessity? A constant in-motion approach to the whole deal. A perception that the "split" is no split at all, but a means of interpreting ways of being.

That sounds very Brandon-like. Fitting the situation in order to instill the most amount of comfort and therefore create the most optimal setting in which to be one's true self.

If only I were that capable.

But, this struggle may be the road to that end. If I were capable of being both, then I ought to be able to switch between the two traits at will. Ought to be able to sense an encounter and choose the better behavior. Isn't this the root of social interaction? Or, at least, the root of what we are trying to accomplish as people continually mashing ourselves together? To instill in one another an ability to choose the better behavior?

And yet, I feel dominated by the traits. Pushed into one depending on the circumstances surrounding an encounter, regardless of effect or appropriateness. Behaving, it feels, without control. Like a programmed robot.

Which leads us to instinct, which to be honest, I had not considered until now. Instinct, generally speaking, is thought of as the latent abilities and patterns of behavior established from generations and generations past, due to necessity and need for survival. These such things spring upon a creature at the time of need and will be foreknown so the creature can act appropriately.

However, this does not necessarily apply in the same measure to a creature who can choose to set its own instinct. The human has an incredible ability to set its own desired reactions, its own self-programmed behaviors. However, many of these reactions - it's true - were programmed in to us before we had a choice. By adults, by society, by the onslaught of perceived necessity.

And yet, they are adjustable with some measure of effort.

And so, this leads to a sort of minor revelation. The instinct I set, or was given - however you look at it - is the desire to quiet up, slink off, sink into the backdrop as a piece of silence, hardly noticeable. Once there, I am free to examine and explore and extrapolate truth and honesty and revelation. Alone.

The instinct I wish to set is, instead, the ability to open freely, express clearly. A forthcomingness that bars nothing. A sense of calm social manipulation, like the mastery I feel over words, but in true physical contact. An easy comfortableness with the way the human is, moves, speaks, thinks. And a confident ability to engage it.

The problem, then, becomes more clear. I could still, at this point chose any route. I could revert entirely to a shadow on the edge of existence, sitting practically motionless under the covers in the corner of the room - revelations and expectations and convictions and questions kept in a bottle to be put on the shelf later and hopefully looked upon with some degree of interest by passers-by.

Or, I could remain split, broken, pieced. Two halves acting autonomously from one another: one expressive, the other encapsulated in a thick insulation from the world. Probably resulting only in a massive misconception of both sides, muddling and possibly even blotting out the way I would have rather been.

Or, I can do the work to become the sort of person I have imagined I could be, were I to actually put forth the right amount of effort.

The problem here is two-fold, however. A nervousness and a tendency to shy from honesty which leads to the introversion I was trying to avoid, thereby proving in said instances that it really is the true mode of action and the rest was all acting - putting up a play, setting up mock-ups of reality and dancing around them like a little puppet. The counter, I tell myself, helps in this performance, in this delusion. In combination, or rather in aide of the nervousness is the inability to formulate the strings of communication I can assimilate inside my mind given much more time and delibaration. And the art of revision.

The first fold requires nothing more than experience. A general sense of communication outside of the counter and the stage-play feeling ought to fade. And it has, in small ways. The second fold, however, requires basic practice. Which, in a way, has already begun. But, alongside practice must be a constant consciousness of the fact that I am not in good practice, that my ability will wane. That the small huddled up shadow inside of me will want to sit in the corner and grow mushrooms of despair and isolation. That, given the chance, instinct will kick back in.

And so, I must engage in more practice of action. More practice of words. More practice of lifestyle. More mindfulness of the inner tumult. More awareness of the given moment. More carefully planned thoughts in a given instance. More focused intent. More constant desire.

And then, I will be in the right. Living the right way. Being the right me.

As opposed to this messed up puppet I, at times, am. With a seam down my spine and a break in my chest and a heart that's been sawed in half. With two puppet-masters rankling one anther for control and neither ever winning out when the moment counts.

Seeking the Air

Today, I remember the past. I remember this moment. I contemplate the future. In doing so, I recall that I am anger, I am pain, I am fear. I am death and death is in me. I recall that I am happiness, I am laughter, I am peace. I am life and life is in me.

And so, I smile.

I smile because I know that I am alive and that the moving of time is just the way the world is meant to be. That in peace, I find change. That in a smile, I find a revolution.

That the fire and flames and the burnt offerings of my knowledge have not amounted to nothing. But they have built themselves up into an ashen pyre where we can come to say our prayers.
And then, depart.

That the droplets and eddies and the bits of ice of your knowledge have not come together into nothing. But they have made themselves into a shallow pool where we can come to whisper our desires.
And then, depart.

That the current has always been above our heads, and we were only needing to come into it. That the wind had always been blowing about our forms, and we were only needing to step back into it.

And smile together.

Peace is a strange motion, complicated and complex as it seems - yet simple as merely smiling and knowing that we are peace as well as suffering when the day seems filled with hell.

So, let us all practice peace in place of our suffering.

Let us go walking on this wintry day. And let us open our eyes to look at the beauty that is life living all about us. And let us breathe deeply the air that supplies our next moment. And let us follow the wind where it urges us.

Let us truly be here.
Let us truly be alive.
Let us truly be wise.

And, all the while, let us keep this smile on our lips as a sign of our love for life.