“Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant.”
Today I woke earlier than new normal and it feels great. It’s dark outdoors, city is still asleep, silence is the kingdom to walk through, calmness is imposed as only path. Fresh morning awaits for us. Lot of words came to my handwriting journal. The birds begin with their slowly song and the morning is just about to start. Important things reside on simple details. Just like these hours where my soul feels well. Motion. Real. Good.
Raw words, unedited.
It’s ok to feel just fine, it’s ok to take our own time. It’s ok to just flow with motion. Establishing times and own purposes. Defining our own paths. It’s ok to feel.
Pretty much definition of this morning. Things didn’t come as expected. Hard feelings making simple decisions too much complicated. Limitation of time incurred. Mitigation in place. Actions to be taken defined. Sense of lack of stability. Uncomfortable sensation as part of the journey. Life is motion.
If I could choose a view for this morning this would be the one. I miss terrible how these waters make me feel and how temperamental my mind can turn when I’m there. Need of emotions. Need of freedom. Need of peace.
Notion of time vanished between days and hours. Existence hanging on fairly desires. Confusion of silences mixed with voices. Reverence for simple routines. Altars for memories that may help us through this. The daily fog.
Been using writing as tool to maintain a personal space where my thoughts and emotions can feel comfort and peace, I’m not really sure what this path will lead but for now it’s been a close and straight mode to feel alive, secure and well.
Fast periods of time where silence and light are essential requests. Basic needs transformed into the most simple and easier to get kind of matters. Intimate and natural way to flow and to find, innate path to discover ourselves. What the treasure of time can help us to achieved. Contemplation and assimilation. Rediscovering the sense of light.
Raw words, unedited.
The Moon And The Yew Tree
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.
— Sylvia Plath
“Hope is the thing with feathers
hat perches in the soul,
nd sings the tune without the words,
nd never stops at all.”
Today I’m dreaming and all feels good. No matter clichés from louder voices, no matter the opinions coming from real worlds. What this represents to me is bigger than any other interpretation. The fact of being there holding her old arm, together, walkig this by slow steps, going through with joy inside, feeling like children, feeling this from honest side, relaying on our dreams. What life is about is motion. No matter the age there is always motion inside.
The way new day starts, the form we want to shape for, the instinct of familiarity motion. There is an intrinsic desire of be one with the air and just float through these days, to feel vanished from actual times and to be be able to feel freedom, spirit liberation and mental period of anaesthesia. To stop thinking and start feeling. To get away, to get present. Duality of worlds.
“ Our favorite people and our favorite stories become so not by any inherent virtue, but because they illustrate something deep in the grain, something unadmitted.”
When it goes deeper through waters filled with silenced voices, when these attempts take you to deeper moments with lack of words. That precise time when everything feels darker but then in a second, suddenly all turns so much clearer and you can feel, by short term of time, but that feeling of calmness is better than all the path. There are good days and other kind of days. Today is a good one. Breathe.
We keep the track by sanity, moved by hope and fearlessly instinct, to know we are still here and there, with us. To remember how this is. To record the beginning of new phase. The very root causes of a full transformation. To still. To motion.
Finding order in chaos, finding comfort on simple things through this turbulent time.
Been trying to channel my own mental chaos into ways that may help me to change perspective, to be productive not in terms of standards but in mental productivity for my own sanity, appreciating simple and common situations where my mind rest in peace, experiences where I can notice my mind thinking on a positive way, periods of time where questions come and answer goes, but anxiety is not part of the equation, looking for uncomplicated matters that help me to reconnect with my own environment and my own space, understanding that there are things without answers, avoiding to spend any effort on situations where the questions are more than the answers. Looking for stability.