Carpets, trains and planes
Today someone asked me, what is the most outrageous thing I have done this year? I can't think of a single thing that I chose to do that was outrageous as far as one's general perception of outrageous is concerned.
Right now I am kneeling on my carpet to write this blog because the cable doesn't reach all the way to my bed, and that seems outrageous! After all, I could be usual and plug it in at my desk, but who wants to work at a desk when you are on holiday? So, carpet it is!
My friend from school just let me in on a message he sent me many years ago on a Valentine's card. And its interpretation was intriguing: what we had in common was that we loved the deep things of life, and that we wait for answers.
Well, I think I have failed in the department of waiting many times, where I guessed rather than waited. I dived rather than checked the water's depth. I swam where I could stand, and I fell where I needed to fly. So be it. Life is a journey, they say, and I know how I want to enjoy my journey - on a train.
I know that I am just passing through, and at each stop I want to experience all that the town has to offer me. I want to know the hearts of those willing to share them, and the lives of those willing to truly live. I want to be a part of them, like a cyclist in a bunch in a race to the end.
But when the bell tolls, I will need to get on that train again, and wave good-bye to dearest friends. And I will be a character in a poem once read, watching beauty pass by when I feel dead inside, and think it unfair. But then I will pick up a pen and realise again my purpose in life was to be as the wind.
Does the wind have a companion, as steady as itself, the ever-changing change, the never=ending end? I never know quite where to begin, nor do I know where to end, for life seems far better in the middle, or just before the end, when it reaches its climax, then collapses in.
Life seems to offer a multitude of thoughts and ideologies, and yet I sometimes get stuck in limited experiences, and I can't bear the thought of turning in. When I think of Viriginia Woolff and Oscar Wylde, and about their lives, I see eccentricity, and I wonder about exclusivity.
It seems to me simply wrong to be exclusive about anything when our very aim is inclusivity, or is it not so? What would be the point of excluding anyone for any reason whatsoever except to please our selfish selves and not consider those around? Out of discomfort, or exhaustion, we offer exclusivity, because who can put up with anyone who is different to ourselves?
Well, we all want to be special, and we all want to live in a world apart from our own, where things are unreal in a real way, and that we feel somehow we are understood, because we do indeed share this world with others like ourselves. Take, for example, guys who understand computers, I'm sure they have a completely different fantasy world than writers, poets or professors.
I must get going. I have a plane to catch.
Right now I am kneeling on my carpet to write this blog because the cable doesn't reach all the way to my bed, and that seems outrageous! After all, I could be usual and plug it in at my desk, but who wants to work at a desk when you are on holiday? So, carpet it is!
My friend from school just let me in on a message he sent me many years ago on a Valentine's card. And its interpretation was intriguing: what we had in common was that we loved the deep things of life, and that we wait for answers.
Well, I think I have failed in the department of waiting many times, where I guessed rather than waited. I dived rather than checked the water's depth. I swam where I could stand, and I fell where I needed to fly. So be it. Life is a journey, they say, and I know how I want to enjoy my journey - on a train.
I know that I am just passing through, and at each stop I want to experience all that the town has to offer me. I want to know the hearts of those willing to share them, and the lives of those willing to truly live. I want to be a part of them, like a cyclist in a bunch in a race to the end.
But when the bell tolls, I will need to get on that train again, and wave good-bye to dearest friends. And I will be a character in a poem once read, watching beauty pass by when I feel dead inside, and think it unfair. But then I will pick up a pen and realise again my purpose in life was to be as the wind.
Does the wind have a companion, as steady as itself, the ever-changing change, the never=ending end? I never know quite where to begin, nor do I know where to end, for life seems far better in the middle, or just before the end, when it reaches its climax, then collapses in.
Life seems to offer a multitude of thoughts and ideologies, and yet I sometimes get stuck in limited experiences, and I can't bear the thought of turning in. When I think of Viriginia Woolff and Oscar Wylde, and about their lives, I see eccentricity, and I wonder about exclusivity.
It seems to me simply wrong to be exclusive about anything when our very aim is inclusivity, or is it not so? What would be the point of excluding anyone for any reason whatsoever except to please our selfish selves and not consider those around? Out of discomfort, or exhaustion, we offer exclusivity, because who can put up with anyone who is different to ourselves?
Well, we all want to be special, and we all want to live in a world apart from our own, where things are unreal in a real way, and that we feel somehow we are understood, because we do indeed share this world with others like ourselves. Take, for example, guys who understand computers, I'm sure they have a completely different fantasy world than writers, poets or professors.
I must get going. I have a plane to catch.
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