low water levels, never more than a couple of meters down. No wind. No one else. No fluctuation, punctuation, or self-deprecation.
it is bouncy to the touch, like a water mattress – something you can not easily get out from yet no fear will fall upon you. That is truly the end point of all emotional black holes. Those we struggle to understand, to measure in units humans created for simpler things.
it’s like that. Yes, try it yourself. Close your eyes and hear the keys. Remember how the composer lived alone and died lonely. Get angry. Do something about it.
now that I come to think of it a bit more, while the notes float in space, the water is perfectly safe. As always long as it is clear, bright and low. Or when it falls from above – yes, that requires no punctuation.
nights like these smell like lavender and beg for the body to be released into lesser gravity. Who will never appreciate seeing clouds from above?
my new candle has “escape” stamped on it, and it flickers in the still air, albeit humid from the meditation that a very long warm shower always is.
escape here. Escape there. Lose yourself, or pretend to escape until it feels genuine enough to live it. For now, I am not absolutely sure of one or the other – was I able to truly escape? Or am I imposing my imagination into my rational mind? Should I even care? The rain of thoughts.
get that water mattress and never get up from it again.
tasting the silence as an integral part of existence is as important as welcoming pain. One feels neutral, though. Creepy? Can be. Painful? Can be. Silence fills all voids and if you look up at the sky there is more void than our brains can comprehend.
Everything can always just be. But to stay and not just be is a shock to the system I am not ready to fight. We are never too far away from hurting. Much like the fine line between living and existing – although it really won’t matter in the end, will it?
i think of layers. I think of cities and humans that lived right where I am right now. Deeper down, forgotten in the soil that was changed in sequences of insane inconsistency since humans occupied the area. What were their hopes and dreams? When and why did they cry? When and why did they love? When and why did they savour silence or stillness over the frenzy of juggling a life?
i forgot how to juggle. I could easily do it while walking anywhere. It was a wonderful distraction! The motor capacities occupy the voids left for intrusive thoughts. Just one in a long list of things “I used to…”. If I can avoid walking, I will… it leaves me alone with thoughts I would rather not face. No! Not that bad. It used to be about being tall to feel safe – in my mind, the image of a certain tree on the way home lives strongly. I used to imagine myself being as tall as that tree. I could avoid eye contact. In my discontentment of having to walk, I didn’t even remember that it would make me more visible… The tree is still there. I still avoid eye contact.
maybe I am still walking along that path, for as boring as it was, allowed me to feel safe. With or without something to fidget or juggle with.
maybe I am that tree. Standing still in time, avoiding other eyes and presences with a serene wave of my arms around my own body.
one day I will find the answer in water… lying down in the deeper end of the pool, controlling my need for oxygen as I let myself fly.
the notes still echo. The candle still twinkles. The air is still warm and my body is still embracing itself. Stillness, after all… the best form of existing.