There are times in life when there is an egging from inside to jump. Jump into nothingness. To feel empty. To be emptied. Of anything that you might be made of. To put your insides out. Hoping, wishing that maybe there might be newness of thought, tranquility of the mind and sanctity of being that can come to pass. How tough it is to take that random leap into nowhere. To start off and not know the destination. To hope and not hope at the same time. How does that sound? Despairing? Hopeless? Mysterious? Or just like random words that are being put together in a sentence that is ended with a full-stop with other punctuations in between?
Somehow something prompts me to post this one, and I am doing this without a preemptive thought, or hitting the backspace unless and until it is for checking the spelling. Fingers move on the keyboard of their own accord with a mind of their own with an unseen director telling them to type some letters that form words, that form sentences and those which make paragraphs.
Here, my fingers pause. Seconds tick by. I am wondering whether this is cathartic. Pause again. I hear the weird buzz of an unknown insect, the airwaves created by the fan whirring on top of my head.
What is it like to be surrounded by clouds? To be enveloped by them? Are you able to figure out what it could feel like? It would be like you are enveloped by nothingness.
Of something that has no form, no shape, is made of seemingly nothing. But still vast areas are covered by these clouds. Vision is blocked. To see through and yet not be able to see through if there are enough. Something that can slip between your fingers and your hands are left moist and cool thereafter. To breathe in the clouds. Entering your system. Does that make your insides foggy? Can clarity and fogginess be present at the same time within the same space? I see a vast area of water. Water that is blue, gray, white and turquoise at different areas. Seemingly still but endless activity within. Colonies of fish and mythical creatures perhaps reside at the depths. So much happens. But on the top there is relative placidity. Is there something to learn there? Is it like no matter what happens within you, you need to have a placid facade? Or is it that you can be whatever you are within, it is how you appear that counts? Or is it that there might far more than what meets the eye? Or does it teach you to pierce through the calmness to discover the depths of whatever you might be made of? Figure yourself out? What are we made of? Where do we come from and where do we go? And have we set out on a journey to figure ourselves out or is this to go through whatever that life might through you but just be like the clouds? To rise up? And be? -Pause- I'm waiting for the next set of words to come through. I don't read what I have written yet. I don't want to. This post shall have no editing. Do we make a decision to remember whence we come from and then the we are made, forget it? Forget a promise? To ourselves?
Right now there is a scene that unfolds in front of my eyes. Fingers stringing pearls. Each the size of a pea. White shiny ones. In shiny string. Sunlight catches the fingers that string and the pearls. It reflects, permeates, is all around. And now I have a string of pearls and sunlight. Do you see the sunlight? Do you feel the hands the fingers that put the pearls together? Or is it just the necklace that you see and the price-tag?
The string of pearls is suspended in thin air against a wall painted the colour of cream. The End.
(As I hit enter and get into typing this passage, I realize that this small box that gives me the space to pen down whatever I want, and sometimes I have realized that this box with the button to Publish or Save, right below, is my necessary tool to write. Nothing but this particular interface can be the trigger. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I am going to publish this post without a run-through, or an edit. Publish it and see what this is all about. Words were a continuous flow until I typed "The End." It was some sort of a silent dictation that I took down. All I know is that I need to hit that publish button. Right now, this exercise does not make any sense to me, but maybe, someday, sometime, it will)
Take care. Good people.