One = All

How am I? How do I feel?
Excellent question. I should be asking this of myself more often. I used to like asking it because it was an icebreaker, then with use it became a formality, insignificant. Filler. Pointless. Burden. Not so, because I recognise now that there is much value in it. It's a way of checking in, to see how I'm going. I get asked, and I ask myself nowadays too. So I get to consider how I feel. How do I really feel? Usually when I ask people they either go nm (not much) or gud, or alrite, or okay, or fine. What do those emotions translate to me? Numbness. If the person says they're good, it translates to me as an overall positive disposition but not actually feeling all the emotions for whatever reason. Splitting hairs? Maybe I am analysing it too much which is supported by the length of the paragraph if quantity is solely considered.

How do I feel? I am not good, I am not fine, I am not excellent, I am not amazinglyawesomelycoolxoxo, I am not fantastic, I am not bored, I am not sad, I am not not bad. I am not how I feel. Yes, there is a feeling, but I am not that feeling. And thanks to the lessons of Life from blog posts, Eckhart Tolle and other teachers that Life sent my way (and thankfully is continuing to send in order to bolster my growth), I recognise that truth. I do not identify with what I feel, simply because I am not sadness or pain or goodness or happiness or whatever. They are just dots on the spectrum of emotions, and I can't be one dot one moment then another dot the next. I am not a line either :P

I have come to realise that feelings are here to be experienced and thus to teach, and pushing them away is counterproductive because I cannot learn the lesson. This realisation has of course come from the frustration that comes with suppressing emotion, particularly pain. I've been trying to deal with pain by pushing it down or squeezing it with 'love' but I simply was trying to force it away which is not the way to go. If there is pain, I am not it, I am simply the space for it, and that goes with every feeling. That means that the emotion can be felt, experienced, in its own accord. It carries a message and it shall deliver it when I let it do so.

I cannot control my emotions. I understand. Therefore, I let thee be. Be.

Am I worried? I used to be, but now I recognise this is a feeling too. It's a feeling of fear, the fear of not being in control. It's funny :) These past few years unconsciously I've been seeking to control my life, control my emotions, the feelings that I feel. I wanted to dictate much happiness and no sadness, no hurt. I've been foolish. I can't do that and expect to live happily. Say irony? I can't have only happiness and live happily. I wouldn't know the difference, because if I were to have all this happiness, I would be driven to find more, higher happiness. It'd be a loop spiraling out of control but trying to gain control. Paradox :) Logically, grasping this is difficult, but life is not humanly logical. Maybe it is universally logical, but I can't justify that with human logic.

I surrender. Yes. I am not going to try to control, to exclude, to separate, to divide, because life is infinitely open, full (and empty at the same time), and united. One = All. My control defies the truth of life, and that just means I'm arguing with what is, which is absurd. So instead of using my energy to control, I now experience. What it is, life, love, joy, peace, truth. I accept it is.

Suicide Note

I'm not holding on to pain. My hand bleeds when I hold a rose by the thorns, and it's no more beautiful. I was cheated, ridiculed, bullied, embarrassed, probed. Wake up. Wake up. I've finally received the message and it's to let go.

In times of emotional turmoil, I've been told and I've told others to hold on. To weather the storm. To hold out until the pain passes. And I did hold out and then I had my respite of sunshine. Then the clouds rolled back in to rain again and I would toughen up. Somehow, pain was rain with a 'p' and I held on to it for dear life. Somehow I've learned that pain should be feared, that I should run away. I couldn't run forever, I don't have that stamina, and it shouldn't really be a surprise that I hold the rose in my hand and I'm still squeezing.

Resilient. On my 17th birthday, I received a gift from my friends with messages to me. The first one recognised that these messages may help me out when I needed them, help me with my resiliency. What do they say? You're awesome, you're a great friend, stay true and gold. I've taken these band-aids and held them in my hand, but I always let them go when I bled because the rose was something I didn't have. So I thought I needed to hold on to it in order to have it. I made a mistake.

And I'm not recovering. Watch the red flow downstream, gurgling out from fresh pits in the earth, along estuaries in the palm that fork out into the rivers lined by flesh; the blood is in no rush as it slowly coils about the hills, through valleys under digital cliffs and out, sometimes via cascades. I see it spill. Dot. Dot. Pool.

The rose is beautiful, it is unique and it doesn't hurt when I witness it, when I appreciate it. It hurts when I hold on to it, when I try to make it mine, when I think I need to have it. Illusion - I don't need it. I enjoy its presence and when it is gone, it shall be no more. This way, letting go doesn't hurt because what is here is as it is and when it leaves it no longer is here.

I pen this note then to remind me to let go, to let pass all that comes, to appreciate all I am given, all I receive, and all I give. So I'm not holding on anymore. I float. I am free.

I've thought about this for a long time. Now is right to allow what is to be here. Having it another way is denial, resistance. So let it be. I am free.

Watermark

Everything is happening now - that is how it's always been and how it always will be. Otherwise, you're lost somewhere else, somebody else.

A young boy is walking along the pier, half-skipping every other wooden plank. It's an easy task, legs being short, step being steady. Off he goes, further and further toward the mouth wide open, fangless (and therefore deceptively fateful). Ahead, the last plank widens and grows. The tiny feet ginger across the brown piano keys. Unheard music radiates with each minuscule descent of wood. The piece being played is one that the universe hears and is now harmonising to. It looks to be a lonely road, but no road ever is, having the company of pastures, fields, buildings, people, animals, plants, stars on each side. The young boy journeys, descending into the gaping maw destiny-bound. His pace the same, the melody joyful as it changes. The final note: eyes wide open, he bends down and there are two posts that hold up the whole instrument. The left is identical to the right, but they are not the same. See, on the right, over there, is a watermark, one that the other post does not share. A line that could easily be mistaken for an everpresent shadow that coils around the wood. Below is the lingering territory of the sea; above is within the pool of land, divided by horizon. The other post suffers dearth.

The boy's teeth glare out of his own maw as he faces the older, adult maw. Once, this was Poseidon. Once, this was Neptune. Once, it was Life. Once, it was Death. That moment - the same moment that the boy placed his belly on the planks and gazed down into two thirds of the world - the swallowing took place.

When Noah rode his ark, there was a flood to ride on, or so the story goes. Here there was no flood, but a pact. The decision made is today's remark, passed over and assumed. Land met sea and an exchange took place. Earth dove in the realm of water and learned how to swim as it penetrated the world to its recessive depths. After, either it lost air and remained at the bottom without the ability to resurface, or it meditates today, not awaiting anything in particular as we do. Water's wish was to rise, so it did, in the guise of a veil, a secret hymen. Now the sea and land are one, but they are magnificently and yet deceptively divided. Is the air that the young boy breathes not an ocean? When he swallows, he drinks. When he swims, he reaches touches land and honours the partnership, the union.

Where sea meets land, where mountain greets yonder, and where welkin touches the ocean, a great peace descends. There is no conflict, no fighting, no struggle, no strife, no defeat, no victory. There is a watermark, the place where the scales of balance stand now; a guardian of peace, never interfering, but always there to be witnessed, felt. Legs apart now, amphibian feet supporting him, the boy stands. Soon his melody is in reverse. Footsteps garnish the silent opera as it plays itself into a deeper quiet once more, where it remains.

Circles

I walk into a memory.

Glass, window, wall, four walls, room, space.
I've never seen this place as it is today.
So free! There's the usual desk,
The computer, the keyboard, the keys,
The books, the bed, the birthday jar from Jasmine.
It's the same.
The computer, the keyboard, the keys,
The books, the bed, the birthday jar from Jasmine.
They're there, and I am here.

I am in space.
The moon circles me, over and over and over
and over and over and over and over
and over.
And the moon is spinning around and around.
In circles.
Again and again. Over and over. The same.

I wake up.
I wash, I dress, I eat, I do, I eat, I do,
I eat, I do, I eat, I do, I dress, I sleep.
I wake up.

A circle is a funny thing,
A straight line that meets itself.
The same road that has the same landmarks,
With no intersections.
And on either side of the road is a field.
Grass, cows, trees, plants, miscellaneous vegetation,
That goes on and on and on and on.

I've seen myself so many times,
Shaken my hand,
Talked to me.
A dialogue that went around in a circle.
It's my engagement ring.

I look through it now.
O

Foreign Place, Foreign Face

Unfamiliar voices with familiar accents, a worthwhile combination I am presented on the sixth floor. Climbing up the stairwell, I dared eye the ground down there. Incognito faces walk towards points on an unseen horizon, a place where I could have been going. At the receptionist, the lady had a stern face, cold, almost as if she was forced to be welcoming, but calm, as if she was really nice just having difficulty speaking English. A foreign face in a foreign place, her and me, foreign to each other too.

Seriously, I felt like a child in a loose crowd of adults going their own way. It was a kind of out-of-place experience, a feeling that I think will dissipate as I actually join this world. Mental snapshot, with descriptions, in no particular order:

1) Girls behind a concrete column that probably held the building up so that it would not collapse and cause a scene. They are talking what sounds like politics, in common English, fluent. Something about Iraq? Having an opinion on what should happen with some people?
2) Sex. Joking. Bald man talks to a woman at a table in what I thought was French but turned out to be English in a French accent. Makes sense, since this is the French Languages office. I expected more French, the natal language the receptionist spoke but chose instead to adhere to the norm and speak English in her European accent. Cool with me :)
3) There, in the bookshelf by the bald man and the woman, a variety of thick Le Robert are aligned.

All the aforementioned made me feel like a child yet to attain the level of expertise and intellect that the university seemed to require. Did I feel inferior? No, just uncultured. This was a think tank with a reputation that had its own gravity and momentum.

Despite this sentiment, I did what I came here for - to enrol for French. And I did - after getting lost for a few minutes trying to find the Arts Office.

The Airport

In the car, I see a different world ahead. Planes landing, planes leaving. People walking, people rushing, people hugging, people pushing trolleys heaped with colourful suitcases and carry-on luggage. I don't remember a place like the airport because everywhere else is so much about staying in one place or settling down; here, it's about saying goodbye and walking away, or saying hello and walking away. The feel of people coming together and parting ways is everpresent, no matter how long I stay.

Nostalgia - longing for something that has past. One can describe how I feel using that word but they wouldn't be entirely accurate. That said, I don't see why anyone else would want to describe how I feel, not to mention their ability to do that. I do, though, and I am able.

So after going through the filter where my dad pressed the button on a rectangular machine (followed by the spitting out of a parking card and the lifting of a barrier) we drove on a small road to the entrance to the parking lot. Nearer to the building that said Departures vehicles slotted in spaces marked by white paint that looked fresh but probably wasn't, just longlasting. We got out, found a luggage trolley and proceeded to fill it with suitcases until satisfied that there would be no collapse and thus no injury to limbs, belongings or otherwise.

Inside, we went through check-in at the wrong place (according to the signs) but they took us anyway. The scene leading up to this: a built man in a pink shirt reading a newspaper that looked anglo-foreign, rarer faces looking everywhere and nowhere within the queue itself, some European, some far-away-from-Europe, men in suits from the top floor of a skyscraper, sisters traveling together, friends worrying about missing their flight, the man on the intercom speaking in a clear voice his message then uttering the ominous This is the final call. Others probably were feeling tension, but I certainly wasn't. Instead, I felt peace, a calm awareness that around me, people were waiting in line to check in. I felt no rush, whereas mum seemed to stress herself with the rush.

Released from our luggage, we went upstairs. We said bye by the rectangular archway that probably lead to the of the airport. The sign said passengers only. Hugs, kisses, tears. I didn't feel sad, I was simply allowing what happened to happen. And it did. And they were off. And we went home.

January

"In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer."
My (Inspiration) calendar informs me that Albert Camus said those words. Let's explore :)

January is a winter month, speaking from a northern hemisphere point of view. I've experienced eleven of those. Mostly, they're characterised by snow, rain, cold, snowballs, snowmen, snow angels, yellow patches of snow, trees with snow wigs, fur hats, layers of clothing that conceal people and air that's harder to breathe but worth breathing otherwise you die and there's a chance the ambulance won't get to you in time because of traffic jams and sheets of ice on the road. No summer.

I remember this month to be unique, in that the first week of it I used to be with family and friends on holiday at home. Ski-time!

I wait in line with some friends, we talk about nothing in particular that I can remember now. We slowly move our way to the ticket machine, where there's a slot that I insert this plastic waterproof card which has a certain amount of money on it. Once it rinses and spits the card out, the metal bars are unlocked and I shimmy forward to catch the incoming platter lift (thanks Wikipedia). I loved taking note of the numbers on the one I got because whatever number it was, it was going to be a different one to the other platter lifts so it was special (just like the other platter lifts :P which I will now affectionately and laconically refer to as claws) I grab hold of the valve and pull hard and place it in between my legs (carefully avoiding any locational trauma). Then I'm off as the claw pulls me up the snow slope. During my ascent I look at skiers in their descent, the skier in front of me on his own special claw (not as special as mine) but never at the skier behind me because I can lose balance and fall, endangering the oncoming skiers (happened before). At the top, I heave the valve from under me and let go. The claw spastically hurls itself this way and the other once or twice then returns to its starting position.

Here, I either wait for friends or go it alone, either is fine. Usually, I go from one side of the slope to the other side, in a winding path that goes in no particular direction except it manages to avoid other people.

A week after the holiday at home, school starts again, so I go back to my class. The mornings are cold temperature-wise, but there's something awfully warm about meeting your classmates and discussing what you were up to during the winter break. I don't remember that happening much, but it could have. We lined up in the courtyard before going inside the classrooms, snowflakes trickling in a delicate yet dense fashion. The sky is coloured winter, so whichever colour you pick, it'll be that, then diluted, mixed with grey and smeared above so you can't distinguish cloud from sky. To add, whatever emotions you feel are touched by a tinge of gloom hidden in plain sight.

And among this, the depth of winter (its harshness varying from year to year) has never placed me under a depressive sheet of ice. Winter isn't sad. Summer isn't happy. They're the same. Yes, I do prefer to swim in the sea when it's warmer, but I also prefer to ski when it's colder. So Albert Camus is right. There is a summer within me - joyful, triumphant - that makes my winters burn.

Further proof? It's January and right now, where I am... summer never left.

Deconstruction

The dust has stopped settling which leads me to think that deconstruction is a process of transformation instead of a momentary event with a clear cleavable beginning and end. Walls that made rooms into aloof spaces now fall and bridge an inexistent gap that has puzzled me into mistaking reality. This gap, the line that separates the two innocent dots in the obelus, isn't really there, despite appearances. They sure can be deceiving. Or rather, my mind has interpreted it as a sign for division. After all, I haven't figured out how to divide by 0, and I'm no calculator.

The deconstruction of the room may, at first thought, lead me to think that there would be ruins left in the aftermath. Like the ruins of Roman amphitheaters, or the Greek Parthenon, or the remnants of Machu Picchu - places where people have been there, done that, then left whether by force of will, force of nature, force of obliteration or another force entirely (?). But it's not quite like that. The walls that fall (probably similar to the ones Beyoncé sings about in Halo) do not crumble and leave a mess then be abandoned without clear explanation. Their demise gently filter light in from the other side(s), so as the process occurs, more and more streams of light penetrate the widening crevices.

Forget the symbolic imagery of hope. Walls crumbling down is not an invitation for me to know that I can make changes in my life. It is beyond that. The deconstruction is a freeing of energy, of me, from the walled room of my mind. It is a release of a songbird out of two cupped hands. As the fissures burgeon, I reconnect with Being.

What a fantastic opportunity this is, to awaken and experience Life as a free man.

Remember those walls I built
Well, baby they're tumblin' down
And they didn't even put up a fight,
They didn't even make up a sound.

This deconstruction, I realise, began when I first constructed walls to keep myself from getting hurt as a child. An experience inside a box is not authentic, is not total, because it specifically excludes what is outside, even if it is rain. Thus, the fight for survival has been my search for Life. Amazing how it's been here all along and I never really noticed it until I became so asphyxiated that I had to punch a hole in the wall. This is the door, another hole is the window.

Sometimes, I sit at my desk and look outside. The greyness of the firmament is there, and we both cry. Rain is beautiful.

Walking Through Walls

I am in a room. I know this is a room because there are four walls that prevent me from seeing what is beyond them; thus I am confined to a space that is seemingly separated from what is beyond. These walls serve both to prevent me from witnessing the truth that lies on the other sides but also to protect me from what is there. So I can be scared of what's beyond. Rather, I am scared of losing what is here.

If there were no walls, I wouldn't know where I began and where I ended. I'd just float in space, having to suffer whatever is everywhere because there would be nothing that divides, nothing that protects.

Yet I assume something. I don't actually know that whatever is beyond the walls will hurt me. It is an assumption I make because my mind is scared of death and it knows that what is beyond will might attack me it and kill me it. But I am not my mind and I know this because I am still alive when I don't have thoughts swirling drunkenly in my head. When moments of peace and solitude descend upon me, such as when I have been awake for a long time and my body feels the need for sleep but cannot because I willingly and intentionally stay awake, thoughts reduce in number and intensity because they have much less energy to waste unconsciously. At those times, my world is calm and I know in those moments that I am alive, because I breathe in the crisp air, and I can feel it reach my lungs and then slowly disperse to every cell in my whole body.

So because I'm not my mind, I must be something else? How about, I am.

What lies beyond the walls could just as well be what lies in this room. In that way, the walls serve no purpose but to divide, to separate, and in that case they are separating space. But space is infinite - that's to say, walls cannot divide infinity, so even if mind death lies behind the wallpaper then mind death also lies here, in a different form possibly. There is space everywhere, there is nothing everywhere. This is who I am: nothing - not yet.

And me being in this room is a distraction from the truth. There is no room, there are no walls, there's no division, I am nothing and I am everything. Thoughts need to survive, I simply am, so I can either chase my thoughts away and hit walls and fear getting out of rooms, or I can simply let thoughts be, just like I am. That means there are no walls, and I can walk through, free.

Welcome

Thank you for being here :)