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The Writer

The problem with this entire urge right here is that I really don’t want to spill anything, I don’t want to say anything, but I need to write.

I need to write because writing confirms and forgives, writing attests to a truth and does not shame a lie. Writing helps a thought out the door and into the world to find itself bare and made of dust. Writing helps thoughts come to life and does not judge what gets to live and what cannot see the light.

Some thoughts dwell in the darker rooms, and once a light is flashed through, they dissipate into emotional tiredness. You cannot understand what was holding you down so heavy, but you know something was lurking there by the ache in your back.

The problem is that when a person writes, something must be said, and lies although end up being written, a general tone within the text undermines them. The reader can tell: This is a truth, this is most definitely a lie. Sometimes the reader can detect the lie that the writer has not yet uncovered. The dance is spellbinding, which is why I have an addiction to writing. People mistake writing with bravery, but I do not suppose there is much courage there. It is quite the opposite sometimes. Written words are many times, ones that could not be said to someone, they hold a weight that a human spirit cannot receive by ear, but only indirectly, only by being read.

Words are heavy, and they seem to fly sometimes, when the tone is light and the vibe is smooth. But they collide with paper and they converge with light and shadow to bring us a message. Sometimes we read a single line and a masterpiece effect takes over; we cannot get over the message conveyed in the way that it was by the person who did. Life is beautiful because it allows us to say what we really need to say, and because we might by some far away stranger or by a wise young child be heard and understood. The experience after all is so distinct for us. We cannot imitate another person’s living mannerisms no matter how hard we try, we are forever merely us and whatever makes us that, continues to nudge us into a form of fulfilment that only we can nod in recognition to.

Photo by Olenka Sergienko on Pexels.com

The human within the grand scheme of everything wraps herself in words and in winds of pleasure and pain in hopes of finally becoming superhuman, in hopes of waking up one day with shattered consciousness capable of accessing the mystery of life. The dream runs below our stories and our secrets, as it bursts in the words we write and attests to the essential struggle of finding meaning that would save us all.

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A child on the 27th ride around the sun

I keep having the same dream, one where I am young, younger than I ever was; and I am starting to believe one thing only. My dream has never been to grow up, possibly never will be. My dream is to forever be the child I knew at 8, the child that grew to be 16, and has now become 27.

The child lives on and crosses time zones and experiences that nobody really should. The child lives on and meets lovers and haters, finds hiding places and extreme emotions. The child serves the greater good and suffers from indecent thoughts. I remain that child as I attempt to learn and walk on. I remain that child as I suddenly need to have answers for things I never questioned. It seems that walking in the shoes of a growing person becomes tricky the longer you walk.

See, kindness helps, love helps, people help and everything has a place in the greater story we tell ourselves and each other, but the only thing that never changes is the child that is constantly in awe of the life happening all around. We suddenly become capable of handling experiences bigger than us, smaller than us and beyond us. Something is in control but not us. Twenty-seven is the number of breaths I take when I get anxious for something stupid, it is the number of steps I will take as I walk down the aisle to my future husband, it is the number of people who still care about me despite my lack of social adeptness. Twenty-seven is just a number, but for some reason it is heavy; which makes me wonder how Seventy-two-year-olds do it.

There is a certain glory, a form of an ego boost to be able and cut past the bullshit. There is a freeing sensation beneath all the weight. There is a knowing that you hold on to as long as you hold on to the child within you. The child always knows something, the child takes life as it is but also with an underlying understanding of the comedy of it all, the unrealness of it. How funny is it really, to be considered old and young at the same time by the people around you. You go to a cousin’s 12th birthday party and you are so old. You visit your grandfather and suddenly you are a baby again. So I do not take it so seriously, hopefully never will.

I write to tell my story, and to describe the sometimes overwhelming feelings that come with living a good life; one that has allowed me to still walk on both my feet, breathe well and look alright. The longer I stay here, the funnier it gets; to be fair the less I believe any of it. The longer you open your eyes, your heart and your mind to the world the more you find pieces of yourself looking straight back at you. You pick some up and you leave some to be free elsewhere in the world. Life gets heavy, so do we if we don’t watch our weight, but the point is to always cater equally to our senses. Don’t eat too much, don’t think too much, don’t get caught up. Catching and releasing is a pleasure and one that I intend to keep.

I get wiser, but I also get sillier, and there is no basis to any of it. We work so hard to make our lives legendary, but we also get bowel movements that make us remember who we really are. The child runs free, the child pays no mind to the chaos. I choose to keep some of the lessons I have learned over the course of my life so far, but I also choose to drop a truckload of useless mind traps that I thought were lessons.

I cried when I entered this life as a baby, because who wouldn’t? so I still shed a couple of tears every birthday. A birthday is a reminder of the first arrival. It is an anniversary of being transformed from nonbeing into being, it is a reminder of life and the beauty of finding ourselves suddenly here. Birthdays also make us think about who we are, where we are and what we are doing.

And the best part forever and ever and always is the CAKE…until next year, let’s take this cake loving child in the body of a twenty-seven-year-old, on a ride around the sun.

 

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Musings on a Spiritual Journey

The list of lives I want to live keeps getting longer. The list of people I want to meet keeps expanding. There is so much that can be done, there are way too many moments to be lived that the mere thought about those paralyzes me. Does it paralyze you?

I find that writing does something for me, it helps me deal with it, it appeases my soul; and guards my mind against a sense of futility that cannot be escaped the older I get. See we entertain ourselves left and right, whether by going out and drinking our lights out or eating, or…the list goes on, to each his own. We distract our selves from a dryness, a bitterness that can only be uncovered in the stillness, that can only be tasted in the air when you are by yourself, captive to the lonesomeness of time you have no control over. All that we do helps us hush out the chaos that could easily unfold the second we let go. Except I dare ask, what if we let go?

What happens if you do let go of the wagon? might you fall off? might you remain at the forefront if you just stop doing it all? If you look away from the distractions, what will you find? Is it a life you want to live?

You see there are always two tracks at least, to how an event can unfold. Time will most definitely remain the same, the clock ticks away and you get one redeeming card that is ever renewed. You choose this or that, you decide on this activity or that, you weigh your options, you dive in, you stumble, whatever your usual method of living is, you just do it continuously and repetitively enough that it becomes your life.

We are not what we do, we are not what we eat, we are not who we see, we are not the dreams we have, we are not the time we waste. Or are we?

The fragility of our existence is astounding, and I know that we can feel invincible so easily. What do we make of a brilliant collision between fragility and invincibility, what lay in the very core of that? Maybe I have a dream somewhere in between those words, one that allows me to glide over the edges of those two conditions and live without deception, not just live, but document the atrocities of my mind and the frivolous buds of beauty that arise in the midst of that struggle.

The spiritual journey gets lonely, it also gets boundless, and limitless, so one must truly keep sight, and track the route; because it is surely not as simple as just closing one’s eyes and finding glory within. Within us are memories, truths, lies, pains, struggles, wonders, blessings and endless paths into a singular freedom.

Here I am, telling you and myself about it, just in case.

 

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Are you a Giver? Read this

This is for the givers, the doers free of charge, the lantern carriers when all are screaming “it’s too dark”. This is for the flame bearers, the fire breathers, and the fearless among the crowd.

Why am I writing about you? Well, because I like to think of myself as one of you, although some might digress, but that is a rant for another day.

So who are the givers?

They give time in the face of abandonment and unavailability, they give money in the face of greed and wealth hoarding, or love in the face of hateful speech and actions, or acceptance in the face of rejection. Are you a serial doer of any of the mentioned actions? Do you do so before you think about the real price of what you are giving? Do you live like this and worry about the returns later or never?

But what happens when you consider the returns today?

What do you do when your bag feels empty? Who gives you time? money? love? acceptance? Do you harbor a slight resentment for yourself or others, and all the seemingly “mindless” actions you have taken to bring yourself to this state of emptiness, of exhaustion of all of your resources? It might feel as though you are wasting your energy, when it seems as though the winners around you are takers. They succeed because they hold on to everything they can carry, and what they drop, well, they have people scurrying behind them picking up after them. Those people stay on top because of people like you, the givers. It is easy to think like this, to want to divert from living such life, because why the hell should you? as simple as that.

The story doesn’t end here you know. The story doesn’t end with you losing all that you have given to all the takers. The story ends where you decide it does, where you let it. See there is an unforeseen power that comes with the ability to give, because we live within a generation that is quite obsessed with having it all. We want the romantic relationship, a one true love story, but we also want the flings, the crazy crushes, the “Netflix and chill”. We want the bountiful success, we want to win but then who learns from winning alone, we have a special interest in the idea of failure and rising up again. We want the beautiful fit bodies, but we also really want to be “Foodies” who eat anything and everything for the sake of our taste buds and that review. We want everything, and really regardless of how contradictory our desires are, we seek it all.

The catch

So giver, where do you fit in this space? Who are you in this world, and what role do you plan on performing? Before you answer, consider 2 main givens:

You are extremely powerful if you are a giver.

You are extremely unaware of your power, if you keep on finding yourself empty, vacant and consumed.

Power is with those who have resources, and in this day and age, time, money, love, and acceptance are resources. People are creating empires out of those, think Gary Veynerchuck, Tony Robbins, Jason Silva, (and yes I realize there are no women in there -I will work on that ASAP, and your recommendations are welcome!) those are just a few people on my personal radar.

You must acknowledge the value of the resources you are offering, and when you do, you must direct them to the right places, projects and people, even and especially at yourself. Be efficient with your power, be smart and do not victimize yourself. Notice the darkness surrounding you, carry your torch high, straighten your back and walk to the forefront. You lead when you are a giver. You guide and empower, you make the first move.

You are the wild card, believe it, own it, and notice how when you take the reigns, the takers follow in your footsteps and not the other way around.

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Here.

My arms are fire and my head is set free. I close my eyes and I ask, one question becomes a thousand, and I am back at square one. No real answers. But then I sense the flame and it pushes me face first inward, into my deepest fears. The memories, the inadequacies, the needs from love to acceptance, all of my failed pursuits, they dance around me as I flare my arms at them. But those are fears and they are not real, they are not me, they do not control what I am, who I am. I torch the first fear, then the second and I realize that there is nothing in there, just air. Empty air. Until the fear of insanity comes running and howling at me, am I insane? No. Just another fear, the most powerful one of all. So where did all my pain and panic come from? No answer, nobody in that room. Nobody behind the steering wheel, nobody holding the pen. So I sit back and I let that let down happen. I hoped for a mastermind, I hoped that I would get to face a stronger opponent, and Yet here I am, baffled. What lay inside when all the fear is gone? How would I live when it’s no longer about avoiding fears and reacting to them? Where will I go when I stop running? Who will I become when I simply am ?

Words roll out like red carpets beneath the feet of worshipers, and I cannot hold them back. As though prisoners have been let out. As though nothing can ever be said again the same way. Words form and collapse right infront of me and I am letting it all slide, no filters or fillers, nothing to add and little to subtract. A complete cycle of renewal, nothing is pale and everything is sincere. I set this space free, my arms are fire and my words are here.

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Wishing Words

I wish I could write better stories, ones that would sway you into that parallel world of meaning, of clear beginnings and rightful ends. I wish I could provide you with mental images of severe beauty, the kind that moves your entire being, yet still manages to anchor you in an aesthetic serenity. I could write about moments that shake your senses, moments that you almost believe are yours alone, moments that stop your mind for a split second and you are in absolute surrender.

What if i wrote to you about the few seconds in between your last conscious thought and the beginning of your dream, where your mind softly switches and you have no control but to exist elsewhere, in a self composed dream as your body lay still, resting. How do i begin to describe the warmth of a hug when you truly need it, or the intensity of a push when you don’t see it coming?

I look for words everywhere, and when i find them I stop for a second and then I panic, because how do i possibly bring to life something so subjective yet absolutely intimidating. I suppose that is the quest for meaning, the eternal pursuit begins and ends with putting words to thoughts, and emotions in hopes of transcending a flawed perception of reality.

 

 

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Gloriously 

Story upon story, my mind plays and skips across roads and thoughts less traveled. But then again, the roads I have travelled keep on teaching me, grilling my stamina and testing my willingness to accept the gloriousness of being so small in such a brilliantly huge world.

My heart is heavy sometimes, and my choking anxiety hits hard, but on most days my peace prevails, fed by the beauty of shores, lakes and sunflower fields.

The stillness of home feels as it should, but the pumping heart keeps pushing my eyes open, I can’t sleep; there is so much to see. So I put myself in my bed after days of sleeping on planes trains and cars, using sign language to try and describe the confusion of being so thrilled and so lost all at once.

I rest my case for now and leave some of my words here, I must release the rest with my eyes closed and my mind open. The soul glares with color and summons me to slow down and rejoice. The high of adventure sways my fingers into a halt, and I pull myself from this practice into a deeper one.