Tuesday, 1 October 2013

Some Days

{this was one of them} 

Some days I don't understand any of this striving. The busy deeds. The whirring thoughts. The endless will to create, to be someone, to make a mark. As if an empty theatre was running a constant complicated show.

But I would be a blade of grass, dew sitting on me, alive in the intricacy of growing from the ground. A blade of grass, or a stone all heavy and eternal or a moth in my own moth-time destiny.

Some days I burn with envy for a creature alive in its own design. Nothing above, outside, tomorrow or beyond. Just its very being. Or so it seems to one who, though she loves them deeply, still knows so little of grass and stones and what moth-worlds really are. 

Some days, a feeling like a trickle of ice water starts running down my spine: that the rounds and rounds of desire and ambition, pure, dark, good natured or with cold exacting plan, are what make us human being, are the essence locked in our design. That all our doing and expressing, our wilful striving hearts, might be the joke with many endings, the cursed demand. The shadow of our own arising which brought us here. That we were made like this always, or that now truly, this is who we are: 
A strange animal with great longing. Of this world, yet forever reaching somewhere, not knowing how to be alive inside of it at all.

Photo by Daniela Othieno  (some rights reserved)

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