The Vault Childhood and Time
While telling myself not to write with a purpose, I realized I had found one. Even if my purpose lacked clear boundaries, it went beyond a simple path. It overflowed from the walls of my soul, revealing hidden vaults.
There is no rhythm in my ears. I want to cry. I am neither happy nor sad. I am simply full. Full in a way that even words cannot relieve. Old events—faint traces of past experiences—fall into my mind.
I ask myself:
"What could I have done differently?"
"What could I have thought differently?"
Of course, I have no answer. Everything unfolded exactly as it was meant to—without stillness, swept along, unaware of its own inside and outside. I struggle not to laugh.
What a big child I am.
What a baby with grand ideas.
From my loneliness, I create more solitude. I seize every opportunity to be alone and craft a new kind of isolation. There are realities I cannot reach through thought alone. My perceptions fail, but kindness waits for me there. Neither too much nor too little. Everything is balanced.
That little child doesn’t have to be strong. His dreams, his reality. He reads books. He jokes with his mother. He tries to understand stories with his father. He feeds a sibling he will never truly meet with a bottle. Left alone, yet he doesn’t mind. He has not yet learned to be burdened by the dangerous illusion of caring too much. He blends the books his father gifted him with his mother’s stories. He wants to say so much but doesn’t quite know how to speak. What passes through his mind at any given moment has no equivalent in any human language. He is in love with creating words, but the letters to form them are not yet ready—let alone the sounds.
A person gets to know themselves within. Recognizing oneself in others shows that the body is growing while the mind—and its dreams—are shrinking.
As I try to understand my time through my writings—digesting my past, pinning my future in the corner of my mind, and struggling within my present...
Am I moving? Am I standing still? Am I living? I erase time without time and leave behind my greeting. Time is a toy for the dead, not the living.
February 18, 2016 | 03:48
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