I came across this snippet of something in one of many half-filled notebooks I have laying around. It's a good reminder of why I save them - because I don't remember writing it, but I like it quite a bit. It makes me wonder where my head was at, who I was then (very much a theme of this piece as well). From the sounds of it, I was at a dear friend Jamie's house prior to taking off to Thailand. And I was probably reading Watchmen at the time, because it's very cosmic. Thanks for reading! Hope it speaks something to you too.
It was February, but it felt like summer. The sun kissed her skin in irregular pink patches. She used her hands to shield her eyes from the blaring star until, through the branches of a palm tree wavering above her, she stared directly into it. She grew blinder and blinder until she couldn’t anymore. She looked down at her black shirt watching the orange and purple remnants of the sun dance across her vision. Temporarily tattooed by that massive ball of fire in the sky. We all come from stars…
And then we sit beneath one, for the remainder of our days, trying not to burn. What else is there to do? At the moment, she couldn’t think of anything. It was Wednesday, not that the names of the days matter much when their content is so consistently the same. This day, like all the other days that had come and gone since she arrived in Los Angeles, began with a solar stare-off. It would probably proceed into a sleepless nap on the couch in the living room, followed by a quiet and unimpressive meal thrown together with the groceries lingering in the kitchen from last week’s shopping.
It sounds depressing, but to Jane it was anything but. It was exactly what she had been dreaming about all those years that comprised what now felt like a past life. A life of working and people and all the overwhelmingly intricate ways in which they tangled together and wrapped around her like a cocoon. Until she couldn’t see anymore and she couldn’t move. Until it felt like the air was gone and that life had ended, but Heaven would never appear before her.
At that time, feeling alone and in the dark was quite terrifying. It was the opposite of what she wanted. But being alone in a crowd of people is very different from being alone with yourself, which she was now. Somehow, those moments of solitude are different. The silence of one’s own cocoon is not deafening but enlightening. As the voices and the motors and the howling of the world fades, a new dialogue begins to form internally. A dialogue with one’s self, past and present; with memories and dreams; with the various versions of ourselves that manifest throughout our existence.
The muted hum of our sub-atomic energy vibrates in tune with the greater universe and all becomes one. Time does not cease to exist but instead reveals itself to us fully - not a solid line, but a geometrical masterpiece glimmering in the light of a trillion suns. What once was is now still and will forever be. Memories jut out in every direction, each snippet of reality an ever-looping remnant of glory. No indiscretion hidden or disgraced. No act of valor praised beyond the rest. The bigger picture is framed in unconditional love and progresses outward, forever.
Chicago-born citizen of the globe, rich in the things that really matter. Let's get weird.