Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.
From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,
move to an infant drinking milk,
to a child on solid food,
to a searcher after wisdom,
to a hunter of more invisible game.
Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo.
You might say ‘The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
and orchards in bloom.
At night there are millions of galaxies, and in sunlight
the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding.’
You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up
in the dark with eyes closed.
Listen to the answer.
There is no ‘other world’
I only know what I have experienced.
You must be hallucinating.
I just googled it right now. The first result was of a wikipedia article for the french movie “Life is a bed of roses”. Three intertwined stories that take place at the same forest of Ardennes. The subsequent results were of the dictionary meanings of the idiom. I googled it because I just had a thought about what I have heard many times from people saying that ‘life is not a bed roses’. When I say to them that it is neither a bed of thorns they say no it is a bed of thorns and that you are too optimistic. Well! it is good to be full of optimism then to regard life as counting of days till your last breath. The rhetoric goes on.
People say hope is a privilege for those who have been given all the necessities. In my opinion their are no limits of what people can achieve in their limited life span. This has nothing to do with what you have and what you don’t, it is about learning to weave your dreams into reality bit by bit, thread by thread. The motivations we have in our lives are just the products of this very way but we fail to appreciate the hard work put in by the muses we seek. I know it is very hard to be optimistic in a world where there is hunger, despair, oppression, and what not. It is difficult to gather yourself up and do all the knitting of dreams but it is the gist of the purpose we are being sent here.
I believe. . . I hope. . .
Particles of dust, we are. Our bodies. All the things we see. Bits and smidgeons come together and make mountains. Little pieces of this, little pieces of that. You can arrange them by weight if it makes you feel better. You can call them periodic. You can give them names and numbers and create for yourself an order. But there is no order, only the chaos of collision and cohesion that, for a moment, sets up the bowling pins in a neat pattern that only seems symmetrical to the eye.
There is gravity. There is cool air and warm air and thus there is wind. There is water in this place that falls copiously from the sky. No thing stands forever in this place of molded dust and swirling particles. The bits and pieces wash away. Ashes to ashes, the bowling pins fall and scatter. The became becomes the becomming. Grains…
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