The possibility of living.

I laid there on the bed listening to the sound of wind brushing the tree leaves. Without glasses on, I looked out to the green and yellow and white, looked like a Manet. I found peace a moment at a time. I wish I can paint, to translate what I feel to something just as hard to define. It passes the time.

Lots of things on my mind. Yet could not find the individual time to fit them into the proper slots. But something is coming up my throat, upon an unknown trigger it makes a gurgle sound somewhere deep and I feel it. I have an idea of what that trigger is, but it does not always work. I play some cello, follow the linear notes as close as I can. Sometimes the sound comes close to what I expect, yet I double-check with this App on my iPhone. I hate this habit, but I want to sound right. I don’t have the gift of accurately gauging the sound, or play by ear. Sometimes I can, most of the times I can’t. Those are the good days, when for one reason of another my body and my senses are my own. I treasure those times. I live for those times.

But that’s not what I want to talk about. I want to talk about living, or a way to live. Something cut my finger, I bleed, and I deal with the consequences, is this living? Just dealing with consequences? Or if you don’t have the music-sheet and you don’t know what to play, but life gives you a cello and teaches you the way, and you play just because. Is that living?

We all are signed up for a package deal with either no accompanying fine-prints, or lacking the faculty to read it. Still, still we are here somehow. I think it might be all about love. I’m tired so let’s just say it’s about love. Because I’ve lived without it for the past decade, and it felt like a blur with no highlights. I lived by loathing my awkward non-belongness. Funny it can be such a hipster thing to do these days. It tells me that I’m not the only one. Our hearts are not broken beyond repair, but rather exposed to the elements. There used to be faith and tradition, if not all humane, at least something to cuddle with. But now, now we are on our own. We are free to live, to send away our hearts with no return address.

Find something to belong. I can feel it in my heart, it’s aching for something within or without. It’s bothering me. It tells me to look, to see. But am I ready? Can anyone truly be ready? I find peace wherever I can find it. I see it in your eyes that you are on the same journey. Keep your head high now. I have seen God. It tells you more as you are ready for it. Don’t be afraid of offending it. You can not. Finding it and keeping it is the task.

Keeping it is the task. It is hard. It is but a feeling, a feeling that life is designed to interrupt. You can not get back to it whenever you wish. Even though when you have it, you can’t imagine living without it. Your heart is full, then it wanes again. Not enough, passed its peak, looking for more. What is the condition for one’s love? Can you be still and keep it, or will it be tired of you first?

I have seen animals who are starving to death but still with this pride in their eyes. Like they know something that I don’t. Like they are living above these concepts of self-pity and pointless dreams because they live it every single minute. What can I do? Am I ready? How should I live?

Hush now, it’s coming.

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