Making it Count

It isn’t always about having to look forward to something, sometimes it is about never reliving the moment. Moments as memories make reminiscing utterly painful.

The issue about something feeling wonderful and almost wonderfully forever is that we forget that time is just as fast. Unforgivably fast unfortunately.

No matter what we do, we’ll probably never really make it count. Time projects its inhibitions on us, makes a moment nothing more than a relic of thought. The past makes everyday a rite of passage.

The smoke, vapors and spices, take them in. Don’t miss the colors, contours and contrasts either. Listen to the harmony, dissonance and voices. Everything is memory eventually, eventually forgotten. Compose, don’t merely write. Dance and run, don’t walk. Let regret find you unforgiving. We might get only so much, or lesser.

You only live and never relive.

Like Polaroids, memories too decay. Make it count. For good.

You wouldn’t want the euphoria to die out, would you?

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21 | Light

 

To cut loose ends is so easily confused for cutting ourselves from what drove our little passions. And it’s easy to forget that. It’s easier to forget ourselves. Don’t. Stories made us and continue to do so. The only sensible thing to do is to become a story, a bigger part and chapter or at least a cliff hanger. Memories are stories we come back to, it’s only fine to capture that experience and become that, to be someone’s reason to come back and stay. Some passion writes these stories and there’s a little bit at least in all of us.

It’s not that hard to be the embodiment of a wonderful experience. As ideal as it sounds, it isn’t far fetched. After all, stories we think are almost ideal exist and they still come with some humanness to them. If this can be projected, it can be. Our longing for something makes us misread something in all innocence. To misread is to become and we’re all in this together. It is a case of adoration and admiration. If only we don’t cut ourselves off what makes us. We must not, because we make someone else inevitably.

A life of light.

Of course, some of us were here at one point in time and stayed. Some of us forgot. But for the one’s who didn’t forget, it’s like being 21 but older.

Eventual | Ending

I suppose it’s okay to let our emotions saturate for a bit, or maybe a bit longer. It’s the kind of crippling that one could get used to. Does this become worse because it’s forgiveable? Some of us have left and never come back, one way traffic sure does come with it’s own set of perspectives. Perhaps this makes us a refugee in our own thoughts, and a traveller in our consciousness. There’s always a certain pressure to this because emotions aren’t neutral. There is intent and interest. Little gasps for breath with a blur for a view in a blank mind, the saturation eventually numbs.

There’s always an overwhelming darkness evening under the brightest sun. Life sure does underplay in the face of emotional animosity. It sure can be terrible if emotions let us interpret life, let alone live it. In amidst of all this saturation, definition and distinction fade. Everything is bleakly similar. I suppose everything isn’t meaningless just yet. There’s always reflection even in still, saturated and almost dead moments. Though not entirely colorful and bright, there’s still a little something. And above all there is an ending.

Endings are wonderful in itself. Endings are the only sense of time for saturated emotions. There really is no turning back, there’s only an end. In itself, there’s always a beginning in the finer print of all that ends. Saturation can go only so far and loneliness can get only so personal. There is always something eventual after something ends. There is always something.

Suffering | Happiness

Suffering is the only part of life that isn’t trivial. So as far as emotions go, the depth of their meaning go only as far as our intentions. Suffering is unfortunately at the receiving end of a life strong with intention, comprised of cruel jokes for the most part. Happiness thus stands out in all glory because the intentions behind it are pure, should one finally ever find true happiness. Happiness isn’t free from the grip of suffering. Intentions pull and push us. Intentions make emotions and break us. Everything is intention.

Happiness as an intention takes considerable effort to find. Happiness needs to be convinced, and sometimes begged for. Suffering on the other hand is around the corner, ready to become us.

It all started with coming into this little existence that we so often trivialize by murdering our innate passions, which really are the last sighs of our sanity. Sanity was our last shot at some happiness. Passion was the clarity we needed. We begin to suffer when our experiences become imposing. To be imposed upon is to witness the death of passion. A lot of things have to die in us before we do, and it isn’t that hard to kill them. The intentions are the easiest here. There’s no effort here.

Happiness is when we could claim the experiences that make us to be truly ours. When our experiences are impressed upon and not imposed upon, we find an element of truth in ourselves that we can come in terms with. This is happiness. Happiness is meant to be personal and ours.

If we had no say in coming here in the first place, we ought to make experiences ours and grab the idea of an intention by the soul. So as much as we’re made up, there’s always a lot more that we could make up for ourselves.

 

Endings

Ever wondered how something wonderful feels like infinity for a bit? From friendships to a tummy full of food. Funnily, almost everything seems to await some kind of an end. I think that there are many endings in the process of the becoming of things or the making of our lives.

Maybe, just maybe I might be wrong. But I’m fine either way, I’ve still got to learn to live this either way. Although, I’d have a reason to cheer for lasting experiences. The loss of lasting experiences are symbolic of everything being an experience within itself, so perhaps I still have something to cheer about.

I wondered if the nature of how things ended had anything to do what feels like a fulfilling experience. I wondered if the inevitable good bye had anything to do with that. Or worse, it could be an unspoken farewell. Would that count as a loss? Would it still be a loss if I thought that there’s nothing that I sought in the first place?

Endings are experiences within themselves. If I didn’t have anything to look forward to as a result of this, I would always have a reason to look back and dwell for a bit. But again, this would give me reasons to look forward to other beginnings, because endings let us move on for starters.

It’s ironical to think that there wouldn’t be lasting experiences without endings. Endings lets us know what stays back. In that sense, I think that it’s these lasting experiences that finally matter.

Maybe I have reasons to lay back and have something to cheer about after all.

Prologue To Home

Places sometimes become symbolic of emotions. Emotions might simply be experiences in context. Emotions make us. Imagine if places in time are potentially everything about all of us, each in it’s own individuality. And maybe that’s why we find our own space our even ourselves in some place or in someone. A space or an experience that we could call our own is the epitome of what brings out the best in us. It allows us to let go and forget times when we probably had to compensate the lack of emotion with mere context.

The idea of having to feel probably has no value, but to put those feelings in perspective ascribes a great deal of value to them. This lets us put these things into perspective. This is where we (re)discover happiness. This has to do with finding sanity in absurdities, or more so to fall in love with them. We might just become them too. And so we would finally have memories that we can cherish. We finally have hope. This is where hope becomes home.

This is the start of everything wonderful to look forward to. This is an incentive to just be. There’s home to fall back on to. There’s home to pick you right up.

Home

Perhaps the idea of a home isn’t always a place that we’re born into. Perhaps it could be a place where we find ourselves and to not be told that we’ve been found. Home could be far away from a certain familiarity in the conventional sense of the term, yet is nevertheless reminiscent of our favorite feelings, or feelings we’ve long forgotten. It’s a wonderful place to finally be at.

Home is a place in time where one’s heart would slow dance in the gentle showers of the evening. The only place in time where words carry emotion and colourful images instead of simply a dry context. It’s the only place where meaning is felt and not simply implied. It’s the only place where every sound and colour is inviting of the deepest attention. It’s the only place where the softest sentiments blossom.

It’s a little gift to treasure. It’s the only place where you could be honest with yourself. It’s the only place wonderful enough to stay at, as long as memory is worth remembering.