The sun was floating in the horizon. It floated there like it was tied to the horizon by an invisible tread, woven by the Earth mother himself. It would soon be dark; the first shadows were slowly creeping up behind Gareth. In a matter of hours he would be completely embraced by darkness. He had to hurry now; there were no time to waste. He had to leave the forest to a more secure place, the dark powers were strong in this place, he could feel it pull, and it was almost like a mistress trying to seduce him with a promise of eternal life.
Suddenly he heard something in the bushed near the small hill where he was watching the sun going down. He started to reach into himself, he started whispering something in an ancient, almost forgotten language and his hands started to move with a grace that was impossible for a man of his age. He looked his gaze at the bushed near him. “Hey relax old man, it is just me” a voice said from the bushes. A large badger appeared from the bushed. Gareth let out a sigh and dismissed the spell “can’t be too careful these days with those creatures around the forest.” “Do you have anything to report my friend?” The badger looked at him with curiosity “Do you have any food? I am starving to death” he said. “Christ, you at are the hungriest badger I’d ever met” Gareth reached into his pocked, but he found out it was empty. “Listen up, we got to get out of here now, let’s go back to the cabin, and then you’ll get some food. The badger smiled and started walking. Gareth started walking towards his small cabin, he loved the forest, and he’d loved the forest since his father took him along when he was hunting rabbits and other small animals. But one day when he was with his father something happened.
Something in the forest around him made him present again; he tightened his grip around his walking stick. He could see the badger started sniffing in the air and he could see its teeth.
“Something is coming, and it is not an animal, let get out of here quick”. Gareth closed his eyes and started to whisper something, it was a language almost as old as the gods, you could feel the power in the words as he spoke them, feel the ripples through the evening air. His skin and equipment started to change colour, it started to mix into the surrounding forest, and soon he was almost impossible to notice from the background. He started moving away, as fast as he could. He could hear noise now, and he saw to figures emerge out of the darkness only a few metres to the left, if he had not been so hard to spot he would have had to attack the now. He froze in place and started to listen.
The two figures were about 7 feet tall, slender built but very muscular, they had glowing eyes both of them, like cats who walked on two legs. “Have you found the path yet Gawin?” said on of them, “No that stupid old man is harder to kill that we first expected him to be, he has been trained well. But let’s continue, we can’t go back to master without his head”
Gareth could hardly believe what he heard, someone wanted him dead, but who, and why. He knew that it was troubled times, and that something was up, but hardly anyone knew what was going on, and what did they want him for, usually he minded his own business in the forest, and he had not had contact with any people for more than a year now. It was an immense forest, and he was its protector. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t risk attacking as he didn’t know the strength of the humanoid like creatures whose job was to assassinate him.
“Let’s keep looking for the path” they took out a staff and one of them said a word, the staff started glowing brighter and brighter. Gareth could now see that they wore black hooded robes and their faces were catlike.
He knew that his changes of being discovered grew more and more with the light, he had to do something, perhaps he could do something now, they wouldn’t be able to feel the magic now. He had to be quick; he started gesturing and spoke slow but quick, and pointed in their direction. Then he started to move backwards and prepared to run. The two figures stopped looking at their staff and drew their swords “someone is using magic here; I can feel a shift in the balance, quick prepare to attack”. The bushed and branches around the two started closing in on them, bushed started to grab their legs and arms. They started to lashing out powerful blows against their unseen enemy.
Gareth ran as fast as he could, the camouflage spell still made him difficult to detect, even while he was running.
One of the two started shouting “There he is, that petty old Druid, let’s get him”. The creature who had been called Gawin started calling him out “Stop where you are druid” Gareth could feel and urge to stop running and just stand still, powerful magic was at play here he knew. He struggled to keep running, his muscles started to freeze but he kept running, he knew he had to get out of sight, there were no time to try and counter the spell, he just had to hope that his simple entanglement spell could hold the two captured, but he knew it was just a matter of minutes, and they would be free. They were sorceresses both of them, and highly specialized. Gareth heard footsteps in the background; they had cut themselves loose from the spell. He tried to think of something to do, but he was too confused. He could hear them coming closer; they were fast and dexterous creatures, but he knew the forest better than them and he had to use that against them. He quickly turned down a familiar path, it was narrow but he knew the place, he had gain some time so he could escape or find something to do. A little further down he came to a cave entrance he ran into the darkness and kept running. He was very exhausted now. The footsteps stopped outside the cave for a moment.
Gareth quickly used all his strength to reach into himself and started chanting in the ancient language forming glowing characters around him, he knew it would reveal him, but this was actually his plan. There was a dark pit near him, almost a 200 feet deep. He could hear running now, and conjuring of magic. He jumped down the pit and let himself fall, but he fell very slowly, like a leaf that falls to the ground, he was as light as a feather. He could hear the footsteps close to the edge now, and suddenly hear scream and saw a figures fall down to the bottom of the pit with an alarming speed, he was dead then he hit the cave floor at the bottom of the pit. The other one had stopped at the edge of the cliff. Gareth stopped in midair and grabbed the dark rock; he pulled himself towards it and slipped into a small crevice.
søndag den 28. december 2008
mandag den 22. december 2008
The secret
another flow writing attempt, enjoy
The secret was out in the open now. Nothing more to hide. Nowhere to run. George looked down at the city. Everything seemed so small from up here.
It was late summer. He wore a woolen sweater and a pair of stone-washed jeans. His beard was untrimmed and he had´t had a shower for days now. He could feel the cold summer breeze on his skin. the breeze marked the end of one season, but also the beginning of something new and fresh. The wind wrestled with him, as though it was trying to make him step back from the edge where he was standing. "NO" he thought "it had to end now, it was too late to fix this, it was already out" wonder what people would think when they found him on the streets below. They probably didn't care after all. He could hear the distant sirenes on the streets below. the street would be blocked and the negotiators would come into the building and start persuading him to come back in to the building. Fuck, but back to what?.He'd lost everything last night. Everything worth living for. He closed his eyes, preparing to fall. But then something in the back of his mind made him hesitate.
The secret was out in the open now. Nothing more to hide. Nowhere to run. George looked down at the city. Everything seemed so small from up here.
It was late summer. He wore a woolen sweater and a pair of stone-washed jeans. His beard was untrimmed and he had´t had a shower for days now. He could feel the cold summer breeze on his skin. the breeze marked the end of one season, but also the beginning of something new and fresh. The wind wrestled with him, as though it was trying to make him step back from the edge where he was standing. "NO" he thought "it had to end now, it was too late to fix this, it was already out" wonder what people would think when they found him on the streets below. They probably didn't care after all. He could hear the distant sirenes on the streets below. the street would be blocked and the negotiators would come into the building and start persuading him to come back in to the building. Fuck, but back to what?.He'd lost everything last night. Everything worth living for. He closed his eyes, preparing to fall. But then something in the back of his mind made him hesitate.
fredag den 19. december 2008
Happy christmas
A simple and ironic essay, with some simple truths, twisted a little though.
I’d like to point out that the essay by no means portrays the view of the author.It is just a sarcastic reminder to wake up.
The spirit of Christmas
It is close to Christmas, I am walking down the street near my neighborhood. The snow is covering everything. Like a think blanket that covers all the misery, for a while. Until it is again remembered by the wasted youth that walks the streets, but for now it’s Christmas. A Time when we remember the poor and the homeless. Where they are cared for, where we remember to remedy our own soul by putting a few coins in their bowls. Then the rest of the year they are forgotten, alienated and looked down upon to remember how lucky we are to not be in their place. Christmas is the time when bad consciousness and empty pockets rule. Like distant kings, ruling in the background of our minds, they set the standards of our mood. We are slaves to commercials, and the gift race is hardly enjoyed. We walk around in light filled streets, not even looking, not even thinking about where we place our feet. All lost in thought about what to buy to Uncle Sam, a plastic sub-machine gun or just a new Action man. We seem to have lost the real spirit of Christmas. The only ones who are to remind us about the spirit are the same people who are trying to buy our souls, the advertisement industry. They stand as a milstone in our modern society, as a symbol of materialism and welfare.
Christmas is the time when we visit the old ones of our family, the ones we normally have packed away in elderly homes or in isolated houses, where they play card games and watch cartoons. Some of the can’t even remember our names and our bad consciousness is remedied by their forgetfulness.
Back in the days Santa was the friend of the people. Now he is the friend of the superstores, the shops and is used to sell the newest outfit from Harrods or K-Mart.
How wonderful the Christmas time is, let’s all rejoice and sing “Jingle Bells” and put all the world’s problems on hold this wonderful night or morning, depending of the traditions. Let all open our presents and think about the homeless people, sitting outside with nothing. Let all think about them when we go down to get our present refunded because we got two plasma screens. Just because there weren’t any room in the bathroom for another one.
Let’s sit and eat our Christmas meal, thinking about little black Sambo from Uganda, whose parents we bought a goat for Christmas.
Christmas is after all a time to think about others. Let bring back the spirit of Christmas. Let’s find the generosity in our hearts to think further than our own nose. Let’s try to help where we are able to, let’s stop trying to buy our parents love, but show them we care through our actions. Let’s start to remedy our souls by acting upon our inner most desires. Let’s start to pray for a way to be more present, more in the flow of life. Let’s pray that commercials and TV won’t take over our lives.
Let’s all pray, but don’t go to church.
I’d like to point out that the essay by no means portrays the view of the author.It is just a sarcastic reminder to wake up.
The spirit of Christmas
It is close to Christmas, I am walking down the street near my neighborhood. The snow is covering everything. Like a think blanket that covers all the misery, for a while. Until it is again remembered by the wasted youth that walks the streets, but for now it’s Christmas. A Time when we remember the poor and the homeless. Where they are cared for, where we remember to remedy our own soul by putting a few coins in their bowls. Then the rest of the year they are forgotten, alienated and looked down upon to remember how lucky we are to not be in their place. Christmas is the time when bad consciousness and empty pockets rule. Like distant kings, ruling in the background of our minds, they set the standards of our mood. We are slaves to commercials, and the gift race is hardly enjoyed. We walk around in light filled streets, not even looking, not even thinking about where we place our feet. All lost in thought about what to buy to Uncle Sam, a plastic sub-machine gun or just a new Action man. We seem to have lost the real spirit of Christmas. The only ones who are to remind us about the spirit are the same people who are trying to buy our souls, the advertisement industry. They stand as a milstone in our modern society, as a symbol of materialism and welfare.
Christmas is the time when we visit the old ones of our family, the ones we normally have packed away in elderly homes or in isolated houses, where they play card games and watch cartoons. Some of the can’t even remember our names and our bad consciousness is remedied by their forgetfulness.
Back in the days Santa was the friend of the people. Now he is the friend of the superstores, the shops and is used to sell the newest outfit from Harrods or K-Mart.
How wonderful the Christmas time is, let’s all rejoice and sing “Jingle Bells” and put all the world’s problems on hold this wonderful night or morning, depending of the traditions. Let all open our presents and think about the homeless people, sitting outside with nothing. Let all think about them when we go down to get our present refunded because we got two plasma screens. Just because there weren’t any room in the bathroom for another one.
Let’s sit and eat our Christmas meal, thinking about little black Sambo from Uganda, whose parents we bought a goat for Christmas.
Christmas is after all a time to think about others. Let bring back the spirit of Christmas. Let’s find the generosity in our hearts to think further than our own nose. Let’s try to help where we are able to, let’s stop trying to buy our parents love, but show them we care through our actions. Let’s start to remedy our souls by acting upon our inner most desires. Let’s start to pray for a way to be more present, more in the flow of life. Let’s pray that commercials and TV won’t take over our lives.
Let’s all pray, but don’t go to church.
onsdag den 17. december 2008
A silent whisper of statement, or whatever
Sometimes I wish that I had something profound to share with the world, something that would make people stand up in awe and say “hey, this guy really has a point, let make him famous”. Then something hits me, what is fame and do I really wish that. A good heart is a humble one. It is in our humility towards others that we shine ourselves. When we ponder upon this sentence: “you success is 100% dependant upon other people” then we start to get thankful towards others, because our creditability our success is a fragile thing. For me success is determined by ones ability to give everything up, to struggle for ones dream, to not let anyone but you decide your fate, to stop listening to other people’s criticism or to be flattered by their praise. Listen to your heart and go do the things that really matters to you, let not the unseen chains of society bind you to your chair, get up and start to do what you dream about. There are too many sleepwalkers in this world, to many people who are not even present with their spouse. Too many people not living out their dreams. This is not going to be an article about goal setting; it is just my thoughts for today. As I sit by my computer thinking about how to get my own project running as smoothly as I want to. It is a way of making my thoughts flow more smoothly so I can continue writing on my book or manual or whatever it turns out to be. Being alive, I mean really alive, to feel the longing inside your chest, really feel what is going on around me that is the most important thing in my life. That which binds me to the present moment, that which guides me out of the darkness and into the light. That which keeps me on the right track. I don’t know what to call this, life force or my will to live. Some call it God, and I smile to myself. Because for me religion is our inability to look inwards that we project outwards in our attempt to reach ourselves by taking a detour. What is here right now, in this moment is really only what IS.
I finish my Smoothie and start reflecting. I hope life will show me what to do today. I am tired of half lived lives, and yes the list could probably go on, but what I realized now is that if I start telling you what I am tired of, I am exactly like everyone else. They are trying to make the world fit their view, trying to fit the square fit into the triangular hole at the shrink, this isn’t going to happen.
So let go of your preconceived ideas about reality, and start to live, start to rejoice, spend more time with your children, your girl/boy friend, start to find out how to reach your goals, just start to live.
This is not a request, but merely an option screamed out so you might hear it through the fog of thoughts and ideas that roam around in the realm of the mind, clouding our vision.
I finish my Smoothie and start reflecting. I hope life will show me what to do today. I am tired of half lived lives, and yes the list could probably go on, but what I realized now is that if I start telling you what I am tired of, I am exactly like everyone else. They are trying to make the world fit their view, trying to fit the square fit into the triangular hole at the shrink, this isn’t going to happen.
So let go of your preconceived ideas about reality, and start to live, start to rejoice, spend more time with your children, your girl/boy friend, start to find out how to reach your goals, just start to live.
This is not a request, but merely an option screamed out so you might hear it through the fog of thoughts and ideas that roam around in the realm of the mind, clouding our vision.
tirsdag den 16. december 2008
The interrogation
Some more flow writing, out of the blue. Enjoy
"Get down on your knees and stay down" the Soldier shouted harshly.
"The first one of you who moves will be shot to make an example" another one said in a low, threatening voice.
Five persons were sitting blindfolded in a market place. In the background the Minaret Towers called people to the mosque for the morning prayers.
One of the soldiers, a fierce looking guy with an AK47 went to one of the prisoners and violently removed the blind fold.
"Where are you heading? What is your purpose here?" he shouted.
"We, we were just visiting the Mosque" he stammered
"Just pretend you don't know what I am talking about" shouted the soldier.
"But honestly, I don't, we just wanted to show respect" he stammered.
"Show respect, you could have showed proper respect by not coming here in the first place" another one of the soldiers said harshly.
"But but, we are Afghans as well, Muslims like you" another one of the five prisoners said.
The soldier that led the interrogation went directly for the man who spoke and kicked him straight in the face.
A crack and a scream were heard. He had broken the nose of the man
"That was for speaking when not addressed"
It was midsummer, the morning dew made the meadow a little wet. The first rays of the sun caressed the soldiers and the blindfolded men on the meadow. It had been a tough night. But it was soon to be ended.
One of the soldiers, a thin muscular guy, seemed to have lost his patience. He was breathing heavily and looked like he hadn't slept much.
Impatiently he gave sign to the soldier who did the interrogation. He withdrew and went quiet.
The thin soldier went for the guy with the broken nose, who had just regained his balance. He kicked him to the ground again. Standing over him as he spoke
"Listen carefully, if we don't get the information right now, lots of people will die, it is critical that you cooperate" he said, pointing the AK47 to the man’s head.
"Get down on your knees and stay down" the Soldier shouted harshly.
"The first one of you who moves will be shot to make an example" another one said in a low, threatening voice.
Five persons were sitting blindfolded in a market place. In the background the Minaret Towers called people to the mosque for the morning prayers.
One of the soldiers, a fierce looking guy with an AK47 went to one of the prisoners and violently removed the blind fold.
"Where are you heading? What is your purpose here?" he shouted.
"We, we were just visiting the Mosque" he stammered
"Just pretend you don't know what I am talking about" shouted the soldier.
"But honestly, I don't, we just wanted to show respect" he stammered.
"Show respect, you could have showed proper respect by not coming here in the first place" another one of the soldiers said harshly.
"But but, we are Afghans as well, Muslims like you" another one of the five prisoners said.
The soldier that led the interrogation went directly for the man who spoke and kicked him straight in the face.
A crack and a scream were heard. He had broken the nose of the man
"That was for speaking when not addressed"
It was midsummer, the morning dew made the meadow a little wet. The first rays of the sun caressed the soldiers and the blindfolded men on the meadow. It had been a tough night. But it was soon to be ended.
One of the soldiers, a thin muscular guy, seemed to have lost his patience. He was breathing heavily and looked like he hadn't slept much.
Impatiently he gave sign to the soldier who did the interrogation. He withdrew and went quiet.
The thin soldier went for the guy with the broken nose, who had just regained his balance. He kicked him to the ground again. Standing over him as he spoke
"Listen carefully, if we don't get the information right now, lots of people will die, it is critical that you cooperate" he said, pointing the AK47 to the man’s head.
mandag den 15. december 2008
A Monks confessions
this is just another attempt to do a little flow writing. Enjoy...
The electric alarm clock woke him up. Kyle struggled to get out of bed, the alarm clock showed 04:30; it was half an hour before the first Zazen. He scratched his newly shaved head. It felt like yesterday, but today it was a year ago. A year ago he’d been a confused young backpacker. Now he was a novice monk in a Japanese Zen Buddhist monastery. His mind started drifting away, away from the temple walls. Pictures of Tokyo´s airport and a young woman in a sexy black dress entered his mind for a brief second, and started swirling around. He felt the tingling sensation in his body and a warm feeling rushed down towards his lower body. Breathe. He took a deep breath and skillfully brought his mind back to the present moment. The pictures started to fade. Donk Donk Donk. The wooden plank, which was supposed to resemble a bell called him to Zazen. He quickly washed his head, put on his black robes and hurried to the meditation hall. He was already late. The air was damp but had a freshness about it that was hard to define. He saw three bold heads appear from a building near him. He quietly greeted the senior monks and made way for them.
He knew his place now. It had been a struggle for him in the beginning. He recalled the words of his master “A wild mind must be tamed with discipline and love”.
The hall was cold, and he could feel the cold planks underneath his feet as he stepped into the meditation hall, left leg first, to honor the ancient traditions. His master and his masters represented the unbroken lineage all the way back to Buddha.
He sat down on his Zafu in half lotus position, and listened for the signal. Dong. The sound of the bell faded out and became a humming sound. He started to focus. For a few minutes he was okay, but then the girl in the black dress came to haunt his thoughts once again. He gently focused his attention on his breath, but the vision of her was still terribly clear. It had been a passionate affair. She was a writer for New York Times Magazine, sent there to investigate. Damn, he almost said it out loud. He tried to focus. The room was hot and sweat dripped down his forehead now. He was breathing heavily to control himself. The way she moved captured him completely, her hips swayed through the air, she moved like a goddess.
The electric alarm clock woke him up. Kyle struggled to get out of bed, the alarm clock showed 04:30; it was half an hour before the first Zazen. He scratched his newly shaved head. It felt like yesterday, but today it was a year ago. A year ago he’d been a confused young backpacker. Now he was a novice monk in a Japanese Zen Buddhist monastery. His mind started drifting away, away from the temple walls. Pictures of Tokyo´s airport and a young woman in a sexy black dress entered his mind for a brief second, and started swirling around. He felt the tingling sensation in his body and a warm feeling rushed down towards his lower body. Breathe. He took a deep breath and skillfully brought his mind back to the present moment. The pictures started to fade. Donk Donk Donk. The wooden plank, which was supposed to resemble a bell called him to Zazen. He quickly washed his head, put on his black robes and hurried to the meditation hall. He was already late. The air was damp but had a freshness about it that was hard to define. He saw three bold heads appear from a building near him. He quietly greeted the senior monks and made way for them.
He knew his place now. It had been a struggle for him in the beginning. He recalled the words of his master “A wild mind must be tamed with discipline and love”.
The hall was cold, and he could feel the cold planks underneath his feet as he stepped into the meditation hall, left leg first, to honor the ancient traditions. His master and his masters represented the unbroken lineage all the way back to Buddha.
He sat down on his Zafu in half lotus position, and listened for the signal. Dong. The sound of the bell faded out and became a humming sound. He started to focus. For a few minutes he was okay, but then the girl in the black dress came to haunt his thoughts once again. He gently focused his attention on his breath, but the vision of her was still terribly clear. It had been a passionate affair. She was a writer for New York Times Magazine, sent there to investigate. Damn, he almost said it out loud. He tried to focus. The room was hot and sweat dripped down his forehead now. He was breathing heavily to control himself. The way she moved captured him completely, her hips swayed through the air, she moved like a goddess.
søndag den 14. december 2008
Flow Writing
As fingers move across the keyboard in this exercise, I ask myself tons of questions, some remain unanswered some I try to answer. Like; is there a meaning with this existence, why are things happening around me as they do? How am I going to react to it? Does it shake the stillness inside me, is okay to rock the boat once in a while? Í am practicing flow writing as I am trying to write a book, but in order to be a better writer I need to exercise. To be a writer is to pour ones heart and soul out on a piece of paper. This is often the reason why critique or criticism of ones works, if one has an open heart while writing, is like a stab in the heart. The creativity that once flew in ones veins have dried up and the heart closed again. But when one manages to actually write something which is great, something where the writer touches the readers soul or heart, then it is a true joy to be a writer, but not it is hard because as I look at the paper I worry, is my work really good enough, Do I have to be better at writing before I can publish anything? Is the book going to be long enough? Will the idea of being a writer fade away as crazy idea in my head, like the last flowers in the late autumn releases the hold of its last leaves, and let them wander through the wind. For then to settle at some distance rock deep in the forest of hope, longing to be closer to the source of life. No, the life of a writer definitely has its ups and downs all life, if one does not write from that empty place inside, one is just twisting reality on words. Words that sometimes are crumbled by my mood and temper at the given moment, and yes I know, this text is absolutely nonsense, but it is without thinking, just writing, following the flow of nature, coming from that empty place, which I can barely touch, only for brief moments at the time. When I grasp for it, eager to reach it, I just smiles and slips away. Like a cat. I remember on episode at Kanshoji with a Cat, where I tired to pat it, but every time I went closer to the cat it went away, I tried in vain. Until an older monk came to me and said “cats have the strangest ways, if you try to reach them with all your might they slip away, but if you sit still they will come to you”. Behold, this was a new insight into the mysteries of life, taught to me by a silly cat. Life is actually like this, the more we try to fight with it, and the stronger it binds us down to the ground. But when we start to listen to our prisoner, start to know him better he releases the grip and suddenly we are able to breathe.
Sometimes when I am alone, sitting on my pillow I wonder, where is this world going, does it really exist outside of my head? As I sit staring at the wall, yes I am from the wall-gazing school of Zen, I sometimes think “this is crazy, why am I Staring into a white wall” Then I realize it, I am trying to capture the cat, as only for a short time, just a glimpse. The cat is perhaps just a mirage of my mind, a concept that I am trying to capture inside my head, but nonetheless I am trying. I promise to let go of it when I have caught it. I just want to hold the cat of the universe one small second. What the heck am I babbling about, a cat and the universe, let make it clearer, I am just writing, and I am writing to no one, so I am in my right to babble as crazy as I want to, and as much as I wish. Perhaps am I just bloody crazy after all, or maybe I am loosing my mind tonight, I certainly hope so, that would be great, as long as it is not my head. I still want to be able to wear my hat.
Sometimes I wonder if there are people like me out there, trying to figure out how the world is put together, without thinking too much about it. Not speculating, but just trying to reach it, for just one moment, to feel the unity of existence. Because where do I start and where do you begin, where do we start to love and where does it turn into hate? Is hate really just a reflection of our inability to love? Heck, I don’t really know. I am just guessing and guessing, but my guesses are as good as any, as valid as a professors. A professor has just practiced more, is more skilled a thinking, but hey, to touch the ground or look up into the sky does not require thinking in particular, only a willingness to really see the sky or to really touch the ground, without thinking “hey, the earth is cold”. But just to touch it, just to fell its coldness of warmth, just to be with whatever is there in that given moment.
Now this flow writing exercise has come to an end, the meditation pillow is calling me, and I’d better obey.
Sometimes when I am alone, sitting on my pillow I wonder, where is this world going, does it really exist outside of my head? As I sit staring at the wall, yes I am from the wall-gazing school of Zen, I sometimes think “this is crazy, why am I Staring into a white wall” Then I realize it, I am trying to capture the cat, as only for a short time, just a glimpse. The cat is perhaps just a mirage of my mind, a concept that I am trying to capture inside my head, but nonetheless I am trying. I promise to let go of it when I have caught it. I just want to hold the cat of the universe one small second. What the heck am I babbling about, a cat and the universe, let make it clearer, I am just writing, and I am writing to no one, so I am in my right to babble as crazy as I want to, and as much as I wish. Perhaps am I just bloody crazy after all, or maybe I am loosing my mind tonight, I certainly hope so, that would be great, as long as it is not my head. I still want to be able to wear my hat.
Sometimes I wonder if there are people like me out there, trying to figure out how the world is put together, without thinking too much about it. Not speculating, but just trying to reach it, for just one moment, to feel the unity of existence. Because where do I start and where do you begin, where do we start to love and where does it turn into hate? Is hate really just a reflection of our inability to love? Heck, I don’t really know. I am just guessing and guessing, but my guesses are as good as any, as valid as a professors. A professor has just practiced more, is more skilled a thinking, but hey, to touch the ground or look up into the sky does not require thinking in particular, only a willingness to really see the sky or to really touch the ground, without thinking “hey, the earth is cold”. But just to touch it, just to fell its coldness of warmth, just to be with whatever is there in that given moment.
Now this flow writing exercise has come to an end, the meditation pillow is calling me, and I’d better obey.
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