Just when I think that maybe I am a good person after all, that I can love everyone the way they should be loved - with mercy and understanding, and selflessness, I would be faced with the reality that I am just like those people that I can’t bring myself to love fully: just as flawed, just as detestable.
When I think that I have it in me to completely forget myself, to lose my idea of self and dedicate my life to others, the emotional fatigue of doing so comes to haunt even the smallest breathing cell in my being, that screams for it to be defined again.
There are moments when I think I have reached such state of selflessness - moments filled with so much hope and possibility, when I feel as though there is nothing that I can’t do because I, by strict definitions, no longer exist: and therefore no fear, no dejection can conquer my being. But the moment passes as quickly, without explanation or cause of commotion, as it came.
And then everything that used to define who I am comes back at the same time the moment departs (a transition so subtle and intricate that the part of me detached from me can’t help but be humoured and amazed.) All the things that define me: all the contradictions, all the hypocrisy, all the pretensions and denials, and worst amongst, the consciousness of all of the above, that only adds salt to an open and unhealing wound.
And the realisation that I am not who I think I am, who I wish I am, comes. I am not ready yet, if not only that I am not made, to dedicate my life to God; because I am so flawed, far more so than the next person, if only for the fact that I am aware of it, and still I am not changing.
I wonder then what is it that I really have to do with my life, when everything just seems redundant, unnecessary - my very existence not adding value to this world; worse still, the energy required by my existence causes an imbalance in the universe, leaving other people either in extreme poverty or hunger, and often both. (What am I giving, what am I taking)*
Is it a wonder then why I am holding on to this love for you? It is the one true thing that no one can take away from me, that can’t be denied, to which the instinctive answer when people ask if I am sure, or why, is simply yes and just because. It is the one thing that even now, as my heart seems to come back to life, causes my surroundings to have meaning again. I hear suddenly the need for the fountains in what moments ago was a redundant piece of man-made body of water. I hear that need so concretely just as I hear the chorus made by the splash of water, like background music to the soloist mockingbird perched on the tree under which I am seated. I suddenly see that things make sense, that they are made to be in harmony with life all around: the said tree, for instance, whose branches and leaves sway along with those of its neighbours’, like an audience to the concerto of birds and wind, and every other body in motion producing sound, which in theory is said to be simply residual energy.
Tell me then: how am I supposed to give up looking for your soul? when without it all things in this world, as seen by me at least, lose theirs. I see now that for the moment at least (and for the moment this is enough) loving you is all that God demands from me.
*from a poem by Bob Dylan
mon petit prince
"My life is very monotonous… But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the colour of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat."
So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near- “Ah,” said the fox, “I shall cry.”
"It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you… It has done you no good at all."
"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the colour of the wheat fields."
It’s like God shoved a little gift that I can perfectly wrap between my cupped up palms. Then threw me into the ocean. Then gave me the necessary stamina to swim to the shore. Then made it clear that spreading my arms and letting the thing between my hands go would mean for eternity. Then made it clear that I would drown otherwise. But it’s also as if, deep within, I know that God left something unsaid. That I can’t be sure of. That I can never be sure of. That should never be made to be that which one can ever be sure of. Because only with its uncertainty can God test one’s faith. The secret being, or at least what I want to faithfully believe, that drowning will lead to death. Ok wrong. That’s not a secret. I meant, let me repeat: the secret being, that drowning will cause death, but this death will bring about a different kind of life. Like a mutated form of life. But in a divine, not scifi sort of way. Life that can perfectly survive in the deep. But it would mean having. To understand a completely different world. To not be grounded by gravity so that one often cannot feel one’s own self. To often completely forget one’s separateness from the world around her. It would mean not having. It would mean no longer losing anything at all.
Nothing does not remind me of you.
When you were around,
I saw everything for the first time.
Except that I know for a fact you don’t drink coffee. Whatever does it for you then.
'I long for a period in my life when I would be able to bring joy into yours: light, when it is dark; comfort, when it is rough' (For H, on the 7th of Apr 2013)
Towards the time and the unknown place/ where we shall know/ what it is to arrive
Macneice (sort of)
Time was away
when he was here
then life no longer
what it was
a ghost’s promise
This promise is a bird
I am caging in my bones.
I am denying it the freedom
to soar over heights bound
to exhaust its determination.
Promises are the most fragile
of birds to ever roam the Earth.
Breathing wordwings bringing them
to life, they leap off our lips,
flying too far and fast for us
to not forget their colour nor
their shape when we held them captive.
Promises too are such wondrous
creatures in flight. And this world
that has issues with beauty
running wild just can’t wait
to see their annihilation. It watches
and cheers the one man hunt, who
with a stone, arrow or gun
breaks his promises to their bones, to
fountains of feathers like fireworks
gone the next second. I am all
for freedom. But not of the blind
kind. So my ribs will cage this bird
promise with the other beating flesh
imprisoned between. Because
I see now that it is not just
a figure of speech: keeping a promise
quite literally means,
to yourself, deep within.
For H, on the 137th day since I last saw your face. Tu me manques, mon ami.
I really want a cat.
The human hand can draw coastlines to set the boundaries distinguishing one Ocean from the next, but the water in it will flow in all direction to whichever shore it pleases nonetheless. So read or even write all the practical guide to Love there is or could possibly be. But Love, to an equal extent if not more than the Ocean, was never meant to be mapped out.
A love that is divine is limited only by the boundaries drawn by the hands of God. But I can’t think of any religion in which God drew any.
I realise now that your first and last love will always be the same person. Because Love is patient, first of all. And only when you’ve learned how to love patiently can you truly say you’ve loved for the first time. Such a love perseveres so your first love becomes your last.
In this ocean, too, there is no beginning and end.
I was swallowed by the Ocean to the point of no return, not because of helplessness, but because of choice. In the darkness there is a different light that illuminates the million wondrous creatures the feeble mind could scarcely imagine.