Hey there,
I know you don't expect this (how could anyone?) but I just couldn't help myself. I've been watching you for such a long time I can't even remember when I started. Truth is, I've probably seen you everyday for as long as our heart has been beating; I've seen you grow up, seen you cry, seen you love, and I've seen you hate- but that's not what I'm writing to you about. Not your story, but the truth. At the end of this I hope you'll understand why I'm even writing in the first place.
We've come a long way you and I. I always chuckle when I remember those light moments that we had- well, maybe the ones that you had anyway. You see, all I've ever done is watch you from not too far. Don't get me wrong though, I am not obsessed with you, you're just the only thing I have to be there for all day, everyday. Back on point (I have this terrible habit of losing focus every now and then. You should know know), what makes me write at this time is that all these happy memories have been history- and for quite some time now.
It started slowly at first, and then it poured like a torrent. I'd catch glimpses of you pretending to smile, or hiding a tear, or saying things I know you wouldn't say. How do I know? Because I know you. Not the "you" you're painting a picture of, the REAL you. The one I miss so much, and the one I hope will listen.
Years went by and you grew up some more as the clock ticked away life while you changed, trying ever so diligently to change how I look. Here's a fact: I can watch you even when you can't see me, so you can't hide from me. Not now, and neither after this. If only you could see things from my side- then you'd see how smudged the portrait you're painting is. Behind that pitiful excuse for who you're trying to be I can see those silent frowns so plainly, as well as that gaping hole in your soul (by the way, you try to fill that hole but nothing works, yes? It's because you try to fill it with things from other parts of the same soul, and all you end up with are fresh new holes to fill up with more emptiness) - sorry, that happened again. Oh yes, holes in your soul. You can't paint over those, however hard you try, so just put your brush down and stop. Just stop. You and the rest of those other smudged paintings should stop trying. Honestly. Sometimes I think I'm the only one who knows what's real and what isn't - the irony.
I've seen time and time again how you think you've found something that may work and you try it on only to be disappointed at the outcome of your efforts to change me. I just HATE how you do that. I'm the one who has to look at you every passing day! YOU should be the one writing to me about searching for the real things in life! (I have just this one time to write, might as well pour it all out). I'll cut this short,I don't much like writing anyway. Never been any good at it- you should know. I just want you to look at me and not look away for once. Just find me- you always can- and look at me. Look really hard and stop trying to repaint me. I'm perfect, and all you're doing is destroying who we are. Yes- "we". I still care about you, you know. The real you. So please, put your brushes away, and let's just be friends again.
An observer from the other side,
Your reflection.
Saturday, 4 April 2015
Thursday, 1 January 2015
Footprints on the Sun
I opened my eyes on the morning of January first and walked past the horizon and right onto the sun.
Looking back over ninety-three million miles, I was surprised to see the world from this new perspective. In that moment of awe, imagine my face when the sun spoke (and for those who must know, he has a deep but soft voice- much like the sound of a tuba that sings). "Not what you expected, is it?" Came the voice from a thousand flames. You (yes, YOU) look like little suns against a greenish-bluish sky.
I walked along the boiling ground quite naturally looking for my home among these stars that shone. Just before my continent turned over it its sleep however, I saw a strange light; it glowed every colour you can imagine but it wasn't in a man- I found it in a dog's heart. Another one shone so bright that it lit up the ones around it- this one was a child. I saw one more before I found my home: This was a man with his shine struggling to stay light (much like a candle in the wind). I saw in his heart a record of lights he had put off, and of countless others he had stolen colour from. No shine was in his eyes when his light was taken from him.
Finally I saw my home with six little lights. A smile stretched my face when I saw that each of those lights had a piece of the next within it and that together they shone more brightly than if they were alone, however great the distance in between. A little farther off I noticed a beautiful thing happening; there was a bright and beautiful light increasing ever so slowly in brilliance. The strangest thing though is that for every light that passed, the brilliant light gave some of her own and yet never lost hers but grew with every giving. The big light was a woman with her death at her side (don't worry she knew, and so did her heart) yet she shone brightly on. Even when she danced away to forever, little bits of her shine bounced around in the pockets of those other little lights that had crossed her path- forever alive as a light within lights.
Eventually the sun brought me back, and tapped on my shoulder as my foot reluctantly touched the horizon:
"Be careful how you shine, and never where you do. My light is for you to see, but yours for you to live- you, and every other little bright light."
A greenish-bluish sky with six billion lights. I wonder how yours shines, after you've left your footprints on the sun.
Looking back over ninety-three million miles, I was surprised to see the world from this new perspective. In that moment of awe, imagine my face when the sun spoke (and for those who must know, he has a deep but soft voice- much like the sound of a tuba that sings). "Not what you expected, is it?" Came the voice from a thousand flames. You (yes, YOU) look like little suns against a greenish-bluish sky.
I walked along the boiling ground quite naturally looking for my home among these stars that shone. Just before my continent turned over it its sleep however, I saw a strange light; it glowed every colour you can imagine but it wasn't in a man- I found it in a dog's heart. Another one shone so bright that it lit up the ones around it- this one was a child. I saw one more before I found my home: This was a man with his shine struggling to stay light (much like a candle in the wind). I saw in his heart a record of lights he had put off, and of countless others he had stolen colour from. No shine was in his eyes when his light was taken from him.
Finally I saw my home with six little lights. A smile stretched my face when I saw that each of those lights had a piece of the next within it and that together they shone more brightly than if they were alone, however great the distance in between. A little farther off I noticed a beautiful thing happening; there was a bright and beautiful light increasing ever so slowly in brilliance. The strangest thing though is that for every light that passed, the brilliant light gave some of her own and yet never lost hers but grew with every giving. The big light was a woman with her death at her side (don't worry she knew, and so did her heart) yet she shone brightly on. Even when she danced away to forever, little bits of her shine bounced around in the pockets of those other little lights that had crossed her path- forever alive as a light within lights.
Eventually the sun brought me back, and tapped on my shoulder as my foot reluctantly touched the horizon:
"Be careful how you shine, and never where you do. My light is for you to see, but yours for you to live- you, and every other little bright light."
A greenish-bluish sky with six billion lights. I wonder how yours shines, after you've left your footprints on the sun.
Friday, 19 December 2014
On The Freedom of Free Will
Free will.
Free-will.
Free. Will.
However many times we mouth the word and throw it around, do we ever really know what it means?
To be free, as my dictionary flatly sings, is "to be exempt from subjection to the will of others; not under restraint, control, or compulsion; the ability to follow one's own impulses, desires, or inclinations; not dependent; at liberty" (frankly, I like to think that all dictionaries have the personas of grumpy old men). Here's what I think- whenever a thing is explained in as many ways as that word has, then no one has ever completely settled on what exactly it means. Let me paint a picture, if I may. I'll call the word a cloud, because just like those great bulks of white that migrate across the sky, we can see freedom but then never really touch it.
Let me add a bit more spice into this stew of ponderings; consider the word "will". In one sentence, the power of choosing (a curious note: Does the simplicity of this word's definition mean that this one is more available and tangible than the concept of freedom?). It's easy to choose between a vanilla or chocolate ice-cream - though maybe not for some- easy to choose between a text or a call. Is it as simple to choose between the heart and the mind? Is it as trivial a task to choose between loving and letting go?
Following the above then, free will in one phrase becomes " to be at liberty to choose. This should then become to me my mantra; that I am an individual. Not a group. Not a religion. Not a culture. And not a race- an individual. Such a simple tune to hum, and yet I can't count how many times we have given it up, only because it becomes too heave a burden to be who we can become.
To become an individual is no simple request. To discover who we truly are and what we are capable of is no small matter. I will (see definition above) say this one last thing though; free will is not an intangible cloud because who we are, and how we are, and where we belong, is always completely up to us.
Free will.
A reality, not a dream.
Free-will.
Free. Will.
However many times we mouth the word and throw it around, do we ever really know what it means?
To be free, as my dictionary flatly sings, is "to be exempt from subjection to the will of others; not under restraint, control, or compulsion; the ability to follow one's own impulses, desires, or inclinations; not dependent; at liberty" (frankly, I like to think that all dictionaries have the personas of grumpy old men). Here's what I think- whenever a thing is explained in as many ways as that word has, then no one has ever completely settled on what exactly it means. Let me paint a picture, if I may. I'll call the word a cloud, because just like those great bulks of white that migrate across the sky, we can see freedom but then never really touch it.
Let me add a bit more spice into this stew of ponderings; consider the word "will". In one sentence, the power of choosing (a curious note: Does the simplicity of this word's definition mean that this one is more available and tangible than the concept of freedom?). It's easy to choose between a vanilla or chocolate ice-cream - though maybe not for some- easy to choose between a text or a call. Is it as simple to choose between the heart and the mind? Is it as trivial a task to choose between loving and letting go?
Following the above then, free will in one phrase becomes " to be at liberty to choose. This should then become to me my mantra; that I am an individual. Not a group. Not a religion. Not a culture. And not a race- an individual. Such a simple tune to hum, and yet I can't count how many times we have given it up, only because it becomes too heave a burden to be who we can become.
To become an individual is no simple request. To discover who we truly are and what we are capable of is no small matter. I will (see definition above) say this one last thing though; free will is not an intangible cloud because who we are, and how we are, and where we belong, is always completely up to us.
Free will.
A reality, not a dream.
Wednesday, 10 September 2014
Of Clouds and Silver Linings
I remember the days when I was just a boy, when my hungry mind would look for escape from the bondage of reality to become something bigger than I was; taller, a bit more muscle tucked between my skin and bones, a superpower of some sort (what more would a boy ask for, right?). I searched for something that I couldn't find in my childish games and often illogical day dreams, and I found my paradise within the pages of paperback fantasy.
I found a place of endless possibility, an escape maybe, from the incessant arguing behind closed doors, the harsh looks shot across the table while plastic smiles that held on for dear life, desperately clinging to some semblance of a perfectly happy and normal life. I didn't understand then, even as I have understood now, because back then, I had discovered my very own closet that opened up into a world filled with delight, adventure, thrills, and- my favorite- where reality did not apply most times. Inside my books I fought deadly pirates single-handedly -literally- while balancing a glass of brandy on my other hand, I scaled the highest of peaks, stood side by side with a great lion in an even greater army. I have been a lovable giant, a heroic squirrel, a dark shadow that strikes fear into the hearts of the bravest of men (cue organ music). I have been carried into the air on great leathery wings as a dragon, gargantuan and proud. When my mind was set free to roam inside these stories, my little innocent heart with its clouds full of questions that always seemed to chase the tears from my body, was set free along with it, and even as I grew and matured, I found my place of solace no longer needed to be hidden inside the pages of an old and barely-holding-itself-together book, because if in my mind I could be anyone and any thing, then in real life I could become anyone and anything, my life was not tied down on the sinking block of society's criteria of what was successful and what was not worth while. this got me thinking; perhaps we all need a break from reality every once in a while to live a dream; to possess true love, and to touch pure bliss. And so, this came into being, that you can't live inside a cloud (if at all we could) and yet see the sun as it strikes the edges that most likely made the old man in a farm think of silver and then share this with his twelve young- that's a fantasy for some other day. Back on point, it takes one to look at life from a different perspective to enjoy its little, often uncelebrated silver linings, and if ever they were people, I would tell these silver linings that on this blog, they will find a home, and I hope that you do too. Life doesn't have to be as pale as would be said by millions, live a dream, seek out and find your silver lining.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)