Quick Write

I am just going to write for 15 minutes. Not about my day. Maybe about the black and white furball of love called my cat. The cars passing swish on their way. Candles dance on wicks. I’ve just got done watching Pan’s Labyrinth. Such and rich and complex movie, set in a rich and complex world. Our world is a rich and complex place. Writing helps me to see the beauty. It helps me to see the moments. It is like taking a photograph with words. A friend of mine once became a photographer. And he said the world looked different. He saw the world through different eyes. And noticed things he had never seen before, or at least saw them in a different light. When you take a photo you pay attention. When you write words down on the page, or the screen you create a moment. You pay attention. Right now my kitty is resting on the side of the bed. I am sure she is ready for me to go to sleep. To be honest so am I, and to dream. To dream of my future life where I can write, and do yoga, and be happier and more free. But today I live in this life, and I live in this world. Which has its own happiness and its own freedom. I wonder years from now what I will think of today. I’ve been reading Sylvia Plath. What I wouldn’t give to be able to write in the vivid colours and life of her words. Can any writer be as deep and as true. It is no wonder she couldn’t escape from her mind. And for me. At times I can’t get in and at times I can’t get out. The more I live in the world the harder it is to find a way into my own mind. And the more I want to turn on the gas oven. Bury myself behind a wall of brick from the world and either live in the darkness or die. Tomorrow I will go to work, and go for a walk with a friend. I will live my life. Even though my heart isn’t in it anymore. If it ever was. My heart doesn’t want to work for a newspaper writing stories about accidents and people getting hit with their own crutches. It doesn’t want to work in retail. It wants to work in dreaming and magic. But is there a place to live off dreaming and magic in this world. Too many people like me fear dreaming and magic. Yes, I fear the life I want to create for myself. A life I could really share with another. I fear it as much as I love it. And I keep on writing, and I keep on dreaming because what else can I do. On somedays I can’t even write. I can’t even dream. I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to drink, I don’t want to sleep and I don’t want to be me at all. I want to fade away into the light. Blow away in the dust. But my heart remains with me, and my heart will not let me go to the otherside yet. I am here to live, I am here to learn, and to dream and to be me. If only I could learn how. But maybe we are all learning how to be ourselves. Trying out best to be human, and to be divine. Because we are all made of love. Because only love is real. I used to write it almost every day and I haven’t in a long time. So I will write it again. Only love is real. What else could we be made of, we are real. So we must be made of the only thing which is real. And that is love. And if love is the only thing real, it must be God. If God is real. But if God is made out of love and so are we, then we are one and the same. We pass through the world learning to love each other and ourselves. And it isn’t an easy path for any of us. If you do not see the demons another fights. It doesn’t mean they are not just as strong. Just as painful in their own way. We all have our own shadows. Our own fears of love. A fear of what is real. Which when you bring it into the light can obly fade. In the light of truth no lie can stand for long. And any thing other than love is a lie. When you meet your brother just love them, and the lie will die on its own. Because your sister may be living under a lie, but so are we. And our love helps to dispel both the lies for the one truth. Love. Only Love is real. I didn’t forget. But I haven’t thought the thought in too long. I’ve been so focused on mirages in life. Focused on work, and friends, and the gym and so many other transitory things. Things of value, but passing value.

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