Because they listen, and they were eager to listen to your stories, you can feel the genuine and loving acceptance of who ever we truly are. So i told them my story, how i got here, i told them that some years back i used to want to write a story about a baby chicken which wanted to be able to fly as high as the eagles. She felt so little, every time she looked at the sky and the eagles flew so high with their mighty wings. She wanted to be up there, she dreamed of how everything will look down here. She made little leap each day, despite the warnings of other chickens, how dangerous and stupid it was.
But of course, i never really finished the story, it was written without end on one of my journals that scattered somewhere, abandoned. But the trees reminded me of it. The trees asked me who i am, where i come from, what makes me happy. They kept me walking within my own pace, no rushing, and just BE. I stopped to admire them and listen to my own heartbeats once and awhile. Streaming of thoughts flowing like a river inside my head, i didnt try to justify them, the trees wanted to listen.
what you drew on it? like your heart does remember, what you have done to it.
I woke up, disoriented this morning, but not about where i am, but more like in time. My heart choked from the dust of the past memories, i was awaken by the eruptions of emotions coming from random events in the past, people that i met, places that i was in. So yeah, i woke up lost, so to speak.
I texted a friend and asked him, when we met. i thought if i know the number of the time i can start tracing whatever there needed to be traced and re-memorize and re-known then i will find my self again. i can re-direct my self. Drop the pin at certain place in past lane to start.
This feeling of content at times comes as a complete emptiness, a void at the very back of my head demanding fulfillment. Life is a bore at this stage, thinking everything is temporary, then whats there left to do. Thoughts; feelings, evolving, shifting, wildly and fast, like they can’t never decide a definition. And I am the one who is standing here, waiting for a conclusion.
Empty hands struggling to grasp the air, as if I could do it and shape it I would understand the whole idea of what Life is.
But this is also one of those time, so personal, something delicate is taking shape inside, the strongest voice I hear is “patient!”, ego would judge me as coward for not making any moves.
“You have become the person you wanted to be, tho you could never see it. And you know the Universe is vast. Every conclusion is another beginning of a new quest” says the voice at the back of my head.
…..but even saying the word silently would stop my brain from turning as if it s a brand new information it never processed before. It is vast, no definition can ever fit it, no justification is fair enough for it. I would look at my both open hands as if it is something that i can hold and maybe then feel and make sense. I would look back into my memories as if i would easily pull a thread from all the stories that would explain what it is all about.
” I want to write about life” i said it again to no one but my self, and still…i am muted.
Re-definition, re-directing, search for the meanings, but whats there? what then? if we are and everything else is nothing but dust. Truth are the mist we created to cover our selves from nothingness.
I dont even hear any slight echo from anywhere in horizon when i told the sky that i want to write about life.