Clench your fist tight and hold it that way for long, and it will stiffen your joints and hurt your muscles. Loosen your grip and you’ll see that blood will flow right up to your finger tips and rejuvenate you. Holding on is important, for sure. But so is it to know when your hand needs the blood, and that the holding on tight is toxic to you. Only after letting go you will realise that it was liberating to know you could stretch your fingers, and that your hand could actually accommodate something worth simply holding and appreciating than forcefully captivating.
We are all blinded; either by the past, the present, or the prospect of future. Most times, we can’t help it. Other times, we refuse to be helped. We trust the haze far more than we could ever trust clarity. We find solace looking for patterns in clouds than be shown the sun. We rather be groping in the dark than be hitting the bull’s eye under a focus. That’s how we get going, that’s how we pull through, that’s how we survive.
The reality is too much to grasp.
Those who believe that the world is small are living in illusions. The world is massive; awestriking in expanse and infinite in time. Like we cannot be at different places at the same time, we cannot expect time to turn according to our whims. We are all born with our tiny eternities. When in doubt, trust these eternities to carry you home. When you feel daunted by deadlines and others’ timelines, believe that the time travel of the world doesn’t have to coincide with yours. When impatient, remind yourself: It will happen, when it has to.
‘Forever’ is a lie. ‘Forever’, ever said by anyone, to anyone, is a lie! Because nothing remains once its time is up. Days become nights, seasons turn, we topple over our heads, change our minds; and in the chaos that ensues, promises don’t stand a chance. The people we were certain would last a lifetime, become a liability. The relations we could bet our life on, suddenly change shape. What seemed perfect then, looks all wrong now. No matter how firmly we write our names in the sands of life, the tide of time is sure to wash it away.
And Forever ends, just like that!
What are you scared of? How does shutting your eyes tight help? You fear you’ll lose all your happiness if you let it open for view for those incapable of creating it themselves? Happiness is no good if you need to protect it. It doesn’t come with conditions. What may come with conditions, is probably the urge for happiness.
You cannot contain happiness and preserve it. It is not food saved for the winter. Happiness is not a mountain peak; it is every stone and pebble you stumble upon, on your way there.
Happiness doesn’t need to brim out of eyes, it is supposed to radiate out of you. After all, you may get robbed of the things that you contain, but you cannot be depleted of the things you’re made of.
I hid the moonlight in a jar.
Sacred, safe, all to myself.
I hoarded it in pints
With its brilliant glow
Saving for the dark nights.
The moon was imperfect in form, shape;
It was less not in spirit.
The larger it grew in sight,
The clearer were its blots
The sharper was its shine.
The glistening sea reflected it,
The soil absorbed it whole.
While I, in all its splendor,
For a comfort to my meekness
imprisoned it in a jar.
Once, in my naivete,
Against a clouded night sky,
I stumbled upon my dependent plight
I cursed in my ignorance
Till I found a new light:
The new moon nights were designed
So I could learn to trust
My instincts in the dark;
And I freed the moon’s borrowed light
From the glass jar.
The hard bound cover page allured me with its simplicity. There was something so infatuating about the myriadness within the subtlety of it, that i couldn’t look elsewhere. I was attracted to the book by its cover. It didn’t matter what I had heard about it from the few others who had owned it. I opened the pages and read through it word for word. I took all the time I could to grasp every word, to make sense of every phrase, to comprehend every page- first at face value, and then between the bold letters. I was enchanted by the words and mesmerized by the language. It occurred to me that this was one book I was glad was written; the one book that I was proud I had picked, from a library to choose from. It didn’t matter that its last pages were missing.