Typing feels very strange right now. It’s as if I was sneaking in and letting my fingers slide over the keyboard behind somebody’s back. As if I wasn’t supposed to be here at this moment writing this. As if I wasn’t supposed to be telling this. And yet it could be the only way. I don’t know. Will I be punished? For what? For telling the truth? Probably not for the truth. For being weak. I guess that would be it. My weakness. My fear. The fact that I’m ready to admit defeat.
I am sometimes like water – like a little stream flowing, falling silently over the edges of that which can be considered real. And when I’m spilled and lost, and gone, it seems there is no coming back from this nowhere I tend to lose myself into. Or is it just letting go of what’s unnecessary, not really losing – I’ve always had difficulty to tell. That is – until the fire ignites once again. It happens on the other side, the one where I’m me, where it feels like me, if such a feeling exists at all. But as for now, just let me sleep. Let me take a deep breath in, let it all go and just fall back asleep. Going nowhere, doing nothing is what I wish for, as it is impossible to approach without moving away and get without losing. This thought paralyzes me, even though I get it, I think I get it… The balance, the rhythm, the turning spiral, the falling water and burning fire. I just don’t know how much of it all concerns me, how much of it matters and how to stop spinning once and for all. I long for the peacefulness of a sunrise. I long to step out of my body and fly away where I’m no longer me, where I’m one with the particles of rosy light scattered all over the skyline. Deformed, dissolved, absorbed by all the inbreaths ever taken never to be released again.
Nothing more, nothing less. I’m thinking of everything I desire but the echo of those desires feels just too weak. My trusted friend. The words that flow one after another, those chains of thoughts, images residing in my head, telling about my life – they sound just the way they should only when written by me where no one’s ever gonna read them, only then they become truly meaningful, only when I myself am the only listener, the only reader. There’s so much of everything, while I remain voiceless, in spite. For only ghosts can enter my world. And when they come I confuse them with real living people, as deep in my heart I desire nothing more than real living people entering. But I need just a little bit, just a tiny piece of the whole, I can make up the rest easily. And then we play games of pretense, me and my creations, I dress them up in human’s clothes and give them names of those I wish to sense real, and thus a stage is set for fantasies to rise and take over.
Would you like to come over here and meet your creator? The god? Just kidding, there is no god, no other divine entity apart from yourself. Just a plain and simple realization that it was you all along. Once “enlightened” you see that what it actually is is the loss of separate self and dissolution of boundaries. Yes, you are one with the world and one with the god, you are the world, you are the god, you are the universe just like a wave is the ocean and sunlight is the sun.
My life has been a complete mess for the past month or even more so. I did what I had to do, the way I was capable of. Often what it means to me is neglecting everything else and living somewhere on the borderline between fully focusing on the duty and trying to forget about it and the discomfort it creates. Days and weeks have gone by like this until yesterday when it all ended. Okay, maybe not everything, maybe not ended but the job was finally done.
Sometimes I think that all we really want is to lead a normal life. A good life. One where we can love and receive love back. That simple. It always, always boils down to this. No matter how fucked up we are. I would even say – the more fucked up we are, the more we crave normality. Because we always crave that we can’t get.
A conversation I had the other day has brought up so many memories and emotions that I feel the need to express them somehow. This is a topic I am very passionate about. Partly because I’m personally involved and partly because, in my opinion, this is still a global problem on a major scale, as sad as it is. Mental health is still something we as society don’t particularly enjoy talking about, and our ignorance has created immense suffering for way too many people. And guess who suffers the most? The most vulnerable among us, children and teenagers, too young and immature to take care of themselves and mostly dependent on us, the grown-ups. We are supposed to know how to raise a healthy and self-sufficient next generation. And yet we fail so often that it is getting ridiculous.
Here I am finally. Home. My home. Finally. No other words are necessary to complete this thought, this moment enclosing it. Somehow everything has turned around without me even knowing or taking part in it. Well, that is not exactly true but I did take myself out of the way to let things run their natural course, and they, naturally, have brought me home.
You are the first ones, she said today. Isn’t that interesting? Falling blindly in love with an idea, a thought that lays roots in the mind, in the heart, and you can’t help but follow. You don’t ask why when your heart gives orders, you never ever question it. Question everything, every little detail your being is made of but never question your heart. Because it knows more our minds will ever be able of grasping.
I really don’t know what things mean these days. I live day by day, I take them as they come, as one day often feels like eternity, and then it’s gone and another one comes, and that is in fact all we are capable of handling – the day we face each morning, the sunrise that awakens the soul to strive for its purpose yet again only to fall back asleep as the last ray of sunlight is swallowed by the shadows of night. Darkness sets in and the soul is reset. Repeats it all the next day. It’s so subtle we hardly ever notice it. The purpose. We look for it like we’re crazy, but why do we keep doing it? Why do we keep looking for something that can’t be found?
I can’t even tell you what a fool I’ve been, how blind and ignorant, how dear a price I’ve paid for my foolishness. No, I don’t regret anything. I’ve had a fantastic life and it continues to be so, deep, saturated, real. But why do I have to laugh at my seriousness and sense of self-importance? I laugh because it’s funny. Considering myself important is truly funny and also a shortcut to failure. For it just so happens that importance doesn’t embody purpose. Importance constantly needs to be fed, it’s ravenous, never satisfied and readily engulfs you all. And while we are being digested by our personal importance, by our unfulfilled dreams and unrealized potentials, we just don’t see – we already live our purpose.
The fact most worthy of being laughed about is that we don’t even have to try to live it, as that is the one and only reason we have born in the first place – to be. To be. That’s it. That’s all there is. Simply being is enough for us to live our purpose. We are an inherent part of it, the same as it is an inherent part of us, and intertwined we transform and reshape, and twist, and turn, as our souls wake up and fall asleep every day, day by day, till day and night become one. That’s all there is. And what a fool I am for wasting my time searching for something I had never lost. But I didn’t know. That’s why the fuss.
So let me take you home with me. Home, you know, that place which feels just like the content of your heart being turned outwards and projected onto the walls surrounding you. Saying that I’m overcome with gratitude would be saying nothing at all. This is not just a physical place. This is me finally living the truth. The truth of who I am. The truth about me loving this life so much that I can’t prevent tears from falling at the beauty and richness of all we have created – through centuries, through lifetimes, through life and death of billions of souls.
I really don’t know what happens next. I only know that I have worked hard for years without knowing what I’m doing and why. I was just infected with an idea and I happened to possess the right combination, the right proportion of ambition and foolishness to keep doing it without any real proof that the goal is in fact achievable. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no hero. I gave up countless times. I still have days when I come home dead tired, thinking that all I ever achieve is torture myself, but then it all passes somehow and the fire keeps burning. The first ones, she said. The fire keeps burning. Not because of her words. Because of reinforcement they offered. The fire burns because it is what it does, naturally. Unknowingly purposefully. But add a little oxygen and see for yourself what happens…
None of this matters at all, though. This is just a cozy Friday night and me lying in bed, sleepy, letting the week settle as I type thinking that maybe I could start writing again, processing again. You know what really does matter? Your fellow human being. And kindness. That is all you need to be happy. Trust me. Truly. Please.
One of the things we fear the most is intimacy. It also happens to be one of the things we crave the most. To be deeply felt, seen and heard by another human being, just the way we are, unprotected and very, very vulnerable – to let somebody come that close, passing all the outer layers that keep us safe, but also distant. True connection is always a compromise between the two – safety and distance, as we might merge into one, but does it last, can it really last if we are ultimately meant to function as individuals? Can we really trust and can we know for sure that the person we place our trust in will never ever hurt us in any way? No, we can’t.
I haven’t said a word for such a long time. It feels weird to write again, like visiting a person I haven’t seen for a long time with no obvious reason. We sometimes do that, don’t we? We stop seeing somebody just because it happens that way, time passes, expectations fade, but sometimes our paths cross again. And when they do, it always feels like the last time we talked to each other was only yesterday, even though we both know it is not true. That yesterday was a long time ago. And that time has left its mark on us. We are the same and yet we are not. We have changed. Without each other.