So this is that part of the year again, when the sun closes itself down and the unsaturated tears of some unloved mystery surround the atmosphere like a mirror. And that mirror brings out the unloved, unseen, unverified part inside of us to light, so that we can become aware of it. That awareness is beautiful for it is painful. It is beautiful because it indicates that stirring inside the abyss that we are, as if it is at the end of the metamorphosis, but not just the end.
It’s excruciating, yet exquisite when you are at a place which is just not the end.
You can see the light that stretches out in front of you, but you have to see the infinite darkness that you have overcome in pursuit of that light. Somehow, you tend to develop a strange fondness for that darkness. They don’t have a word for feeling attachment to bad memories. They call it nostalgia when you remember the happy times in the face of darkness. But we still don’t know what to label ourselves when we remember the other than happy times in the face of happy times.
Somethings linger longer than you would have suspected.
You thought that the choice will be easier once you were there. You thought that the stretching of your hand will be the most natural thing once the distance is the length of that arm. You thought that when you’ll have the strength to break the shell, watching that crack appear on the shell will be the first thing you'll want to see. You thought that when you’ll have the freedom to speak from a place of meaning and stirring, you won’t hesitate. You thought that when the sea was in the sight, touching and feeling the waves would be the only thing on your mind.
But that un-stretched hand, that confided existence, those repressed words and that wave less life lives inside you, breathing slowly in the face of its antithesis yet being consistent.
And then you are hit with an even stronger and scarier realization. That that strangled hand did not want to stretch. You did. That shell didn't want to break. You wanted the cracks. Those words of meaning wanted to stay inside. You were adamant to them being heard. That longing for the sea didn't want itself to end by seeing and touching the waves. You did.
Capital Why OO You.
That pain and wanting wanted more pain and wanting instead. You wanted a logical conclusion.
And now when you stand in front of that logical conclusion, you realize how divorced are you from every pain and wanting you have identified yourself with in your life. You derived your strength and a sense of identity from them, yet you were not the same as they were. You were always something bigger and incomprehensible for them and for yourself.
That awareness of enormous intricacy and strangeness lying ahead is what strangles your hand. The strength has to come from something different, something reflective of the beautiful ambiguity that lies ahead. Fear can’t provide that strength, for fear can fight, but it can’t create. It can’t be pain either. Pain can react, but the reaction towards intricacy and strangeness can never be the extension of the soul.
That is when you have to make the journey backwards one last time,yet this time differently, so that you can find the strength to go beyondwards.
Every silently won battle has to be honored. Every act of grace, done or being done to, has to be revered. Every blade of grass that was supporting your weight when you stared at the piercing sun has to be noticed and felt.
I don’t know what lies at the end for I am not there yet. I don’t if I’ll ever be.