I thought I was still good at stretching down my legs, to their maximum capacity. I know I could when I was around the age of eight. But, not any more. It has certainly advanced, well, into a mental stretch that takes in the form of a spin. It no longer involves my body, only my mind. And, I kept feeding into this quality, many different things. I say things; because they are indeed, only just things.
This baseline of my experience is the pole that sets the stage for my mental dance. Like a Ballerina who is anxiously happy during the continuous clapping of an audience over her victory. Or, in the way a piece of chocolate dissolves so sweetly in my mouth, while my tongue cradles this sweet taste. For when the piece is there, it only requires me to situate it correctly.
And in between every other hour, life destroys that flavor. It isn’t really life, but it’s what makes life, life. Which diminishes the sweetness eventually. That is, mostly to do with, other worldly rotations taking place in the form of becoming, or in the process of walking down the path of familiarity; a road often taken, but very little understood.
In some mornings, reality is as atrocious as feeling suspended from the motion of life, of existence, and of the circulation of the biological forces within the body. Leaving it to reality to make it up for the mind; for why should we spin along the rotation of our earth (unconsciously) while mentally spinning in our heads (consciously and unconsciously), is not always a helpful thing?’
Aren’t we but thoughts roaming around on this earth? Aren’t we made of lessons, experiences, and especially of feelings—to formalize and color such findings?
In other mornings, the mental spins of others are louder than the sound of one’s own breath. So much so that it infests like a spider’s web—that builds up slowly, yet orderly and tightly into each of our tranquil streams. As for me, when my siege gets broken, its scattered pieces become painful pins thrown at me and against my own will.
The only consistent aspect of it all is that we are but a bundle of a spinning life, a rotation within another rotation. In an endless loop of spinning thoughts. This mixture is vital for generating us with potentials that result from chaos and order. It is a never-ending process of rediscovering the question of ‘what could happen next?’
Throughout the nights, the mind is at refuge—peaceful but unpromising. hopeful, but undeniable of its long day of loss, joy, or trouble. But, what difference does it make when the night approaches? As the earth will still spin, and the dynamic of life will continue on. We must permit ourselves to blend in with ourselves first, colorfully, then apply that to our understandings of the complexity in both chaos and order. Also, by letting the infusion of these colliding forces set in, so that we could beget the brushes needed for our painted spins, and to submit to our inner life which is obeyed by the outer forces of life.