In numbers and figures,
To count and wash,
To see all things for value,
In the light of survival
In our society, we are urged to pay attention to all things that carry value. We strive and work on things only from which we are sure there is some type of gain that is available. Even as I write these words, unconscious patterns in my head question if there is any need for this post, if there is any sort of entertainment, or any type of advantage in life’s scenario that can be gained. I have seen that it is in doing things that carry less value, such as watching the flight of a bird, or the simple sound and rustle of a leaf on a tree, or simply watching the water flow out onto the bathroom floor, it is in these things that the magic of life is revealed.
How many years have passed since we ceased to wonder? As children, the eyes are sensitive to all colors. Every vibration of the world counts as a little piece of magic inside our hearts. Today, those little bits only remain as memories. In striving for magic again in our lives, we turn toward the satisfaction of our senses. There is no magic in the satiation of our senses. We have forgotten to see and instead chosen to seek.
Life is a very big mystery. You see, as hard as I try to pen down what life really means, I always fall short of the real thing. Words are useless, but you see, there is a certain charm in tuning one’s experiences into a textual orchestra.
Because of common sense and calculation, our world lost its path thousands of years ago. When we forgot that all things splendid exist in the perception of life through a child’s eyes. Growing up means to collect knowledge, become serious, and turn all attention toward leading a settled and organized life. But I’ll tell you what, that’s not what growing up is. Growing up is to understand that learning is not accumulation of observed movement but forgetting all that one has accumulated.
We cannot see life for what it is through yesterday’s eyes and tomorrow’s dreams. When God is dancing so rich and decorated before our eyes, in mystery and splendor, everlastingly loving calling us to castles of magic that lie beyond perception, we settle for meager tokens of temporal satisfaction. Our tastes are limited, we are not thirsty anymore for the infinite, we have decided even in desire to desire the little. Do we really know what desire is? We speak of it like we understood perfectly well. But do we even know what we really want? Do we know what hides deep in those untrod areas of the soul? Those subtle, very subtle memories of thousands of years of existence, have we seen those, do we know?
You see, in the digestion of a thousand words, a man can tell a new story. But on listening to a million words, on pure listening, without any sense or sort of sense of any type of objection in that listening, without any type of prejudiced resistance in that listening, just through pure listening, a man will realize that there are no stories left to tell. We are the story, we are the dancing minstrels casting spells of love in the oceanish space of expression.
I must fail in language, I will fail, there is no other way but to fail in language when I am confronted with this, with this phenomenal thing that is life. How can I tell of it? If need be, I will cast all bondage of writing style and lingual hindrances aside to get the closest I can to the signboards to salvation.
You see, we were never enslaved but always free. But somehow in this tale of modern society, we forgot what magic was all about.
Bliss in All Things Useless,
Kisses by an undivided road
Dreaming of a princess with orchid lips,
I sat to fold my million hearts
Can I kiss you if the wind stayed selfish?
Would I still ask you to smile at me?
I wonder my beloved, in which corner you lurk,
Spurning this river of cocky connection