My wings.

We try so hard, to fill the empty gulfs of our minds with something seemingly exemplary, something glorious. It’s as if the tiniest crack in the glass will never strain, as if the wax on my wounds will never melt, as if I’ll forget; and that you’ll let me, that I should?

Slow down, accept, transform.

Wondering if I should paint the glass; paint over my memories, some vivid, some dull? Or clean the dirt instead?  What should it be, an emotional color palette or a clear nightly sky?

We can never understand why we feel what we feel. They say that it’s all from experience, and that what we feel now has already been felt by us before; in tiny little droplets, of raging emotions. And now the feelings have become so nuanced and conflated that it’s hard not to feel anything.

So, get out of that pool of emotions, and append the opposite.

I wonder if the tangible can be commensurate with the intangible, meaning that I can always change the way I think about things, precisely because I can’t forget. Because it is the sheer physicality, the fact that my experience casts shadow on the earth, that makes emotions so well cemented and relevant. And it is this relevancy that I want to spurn.  

Stop being relevant, become.

That is why, I want to feel like the sea, calm and serene, in every sense of that word. It is so grand, reachable, yet unreachable. Accepting, yet rejecting, raging and transforming – it’s all I want to be. Listen closely; the wrath of the Sea is a crescendo of its silence, it is still calm, yet intractable. What a paradox the sea is, and how balanced. So, I want the calm to feel like the calm, and the heavy to sink and drown. Not the other way around.

Maybe human beings are not perfect, that is why we learn from the nature, to be as balanced yet never as much.

I want to feel like a sepia filter on a colorful picture, not hiding anything, nor subduing, and nor supplicating for anything. Just existing under the translucent mask of a wonderful reality, where I am living, and loving - in slow motion. Forever reaching, arching, curling up, laying down, standing up; not because I have to, but because every damn cell in my body is willing to.

These pages are slipping away from my fingers, whether I crave what had been or what would be, and what it is that I crave, I do not know.  All I know, is that at present, these fluttering pages are taking me somewhere, where, I do not know. But for the most part, there is satisfaction in simplicity, peace in purity, and dignity in walking away from trouble. Maybe the Sea has its own anodyne, and I may never know what. But this is one of mine. My wings. :)