how was your hol­i­day? mine was lovely. i gave three or four days of my life to Haruki Marakami's 1Q84 read­ing all day and doing noth­ing else. (ex­cept med­i­tat­ing and doing yoga and eat­ing choco­late which is ap­par­ently all you need to eat to sur­vive)  its 1000 pgs. i haven't got­ten sucked into a book like that in ages. to­tally im­mersed. i re­al­ized though, deep into it, that it was about very lonely peo­ple. peo­ple who were never loved or touched or held. I think that lone­li­ness in japan is some­thing very dif­fer­ent then what we have here. some­thing i do not truly know or un­der­stand. there are so many peo­ple in this world! each of them with an aching heart! each of them strug­gling against odds to stay alive, and for what? (some­thing else i took from the book) not for them­selves. once we have our basic needs cov­ered, its not enough to live just for our­selves. we want to live for some­one or some­thing else. we know how small and mean­ing­less we are, but if we can redi­rect that pow­er­less­ness (a re­cur­ring theme in the novel) even if only for our­selves, and tell our­selves we live for some­one else, we have a pur­pose. we need a pur­pose.

in a uni­verse ex­pand­ing, con­structed of pure ran­dom­ness and par­ti­cles of light, wouldn't it be nice if we had a pur­pose? if there was real mean­ing?

every sin­gle in­di­vid­ual is on this jour­ney of dis­cov­ery. grow­ing up. fig­ur­ing shit out. gath­er­ing scars and palimpsest his­to­ries across their skin and in their hearts. why? why do we have to go on learn­ing the same lessons over and over again? why does it al­ways hurt to be dis­ap­pointed? even when you thought you knew what to ex­pect? what are habits? and what's crazy is that we carry with us not only our own pain and suf­fer­ing, but that of our an­ces­tors. amal­ga­ma­tions, con­glom­er­a­tions, sed­i­men­tary lay­ers of all of the peo­ple who came be­fore you, all of THEIR SHIT.

how do we deal with this?

we keep the shit mov­ing. (this is a hy­poth­e­sis just de­vel­op­ing in me, it's not right or wrong). but i have de­cided that any­thing that is re­pressed, can be harm­ful. it cre­ates a node. it blocks the en­er­getic flow. the sto­ries must be told, passed down, so that they may evolve. con­tin­u­ing to grow and re­spond to the ever chang­ing en­vi­ron­ment. not be buried in the mud of our sub­con­scious. any­thing that is re­pressed, can be harm­ful. all emo­tion must be al­lowed to flow through the body. ac­knowl­edged. not judged. note taken. ob­serv­ing. stress is block­age. anx­i­ety is loss of focus and per­spec­tive. we are just crea­tures. lit­tle soft bod­ied be­ings. we bring air into our lungs and we give off light. this is our gift. we flow through the tips of our fin­gers and tongues. we take in the world through our ori­fices. we are mag­i­cal be­ings. we con­ceive and give birth to beau­ti­ful cre­ations.

i don't know what it means. i don't know why. why i have to be this way. why life is about cop­ing. and how every­one who comes into this world is hurt by it. ex­pe­ri­ences pain. or why those sen­sa­tions man­i­fest feel­ings of iso­la­tion. how is it that the old­est feel­ings in the world, the ones that we have been feel­ing for mil­len­nia, still make us feel iso­lated? be­cause rage and anger and shame and guilt block pas­sage­ways. they redi­rect the en­ergy flow­ing out and cre­ate traf­fic jams in the body and heart and mind. clots. knots. dams.

but we hu­mans are also gifted with the power to con­trol that. it al­ways gets away from us, but we can al­ways reign it back in. start again. no love lost. at­ten­tive­ness. lis­ten­ing. lis­ten­ing to the body. through dis­ci­pline. let­ting the storm swirl and slow to a stop and let­ting the dust settle...​what re­mains? just you. still here. like you were. a body. sen­sa­tion. flut­ter­ing. aching. pump­ing. in­con­se­quen­tial. con­tain­ing the se­crets of the uni­verse in your very self. at the ra­zors edge where body meets mind: an open heart. pure joy. sim­ply alive.