Blue Flowers or Home
Earlier this evening, in one of our conversations, my mother mentioned a couple of letters that I had once written her. We often wrote letters to our beloveds, a tradition we love keeping. She left me alone in her kitchen, making hot drinks, chamomile for her, a rose infusion for me, came back into the room and handed me a few folded pages. As I gently unfolded the papers, and as the lines appeared written in dreamy letters, all of which I recognize too well, their curves, their openings, and closures, I could smell the dried flowers still in between the folded papers. One of the letters dated 1995, and the other 2003, I wrote the first one when I was 15, and the other when I was 23. The black ink, romantic characters and words carried me into a swoon of a teenager’s expressions and impressions, the fire that burns ablaze in those words burns brighter and still in my heart, and this life has started to make some sense now again. The dreams my sight beheld on those papers, and to my utter relief and belief, have crossed my blessed path, at a time, that not only have I learned it is the divine timing, but I also developed a strong belief and will for it. The furious love, the passionate love inside me kicked into my system, I realize that I have gratefully come to terms with yet another cycle.
I am a strange machine
After having been infatuated by the beauty of my dark pensées, over our humanity or lack of it thereof, camouflaged identities, false dreams and convictions, artificial actions and reactions leading to artificial lives based on smothered sensitivity and mind tricks, the nuances between the mind that exists within the heart of the all, and the other varieties of the mind, like the one that is directly linked to one’s identity, which is in turn connected to society, and of course influences, and such human salvation and damnation. It can be fun, if you get what I mean, the exploration, the knowledge thus the expansion that follows, mind, heart, body, one expanded faculty is enough to trigger one and even the two others. But the question that keeps popping out is ‘How did I get here, to this edge and I want to jump, find my dive into it, face it, see what more mysteries time unfolds.’ That’s a mind trick, you’re probably right. Still, some questions come with answers to them, and that makes it impossible to lay them to rest, if only out of our slutty egos, some questions, we just have to answer, having a variety of logical, psychological, intellectual, or from life-experience related-facts answers makes it even the more appealing, we want to try this one out, or the other, see what makes wiser sense, see if we can understand human behavior possibly any further, not to understand our selves, at all, no, that is an inside job don’t we all agree to that by now. We try to further our understanding in human behavior to simply be able to identify.
Of which our endless search for gods and deities, and places in time and space.
༺ We are all time travelers ༻
‘I am a strange machine. I travel in different weathers, dusty, dreamy, rainy, or flowery. I travel in different times. Immersed in time, I come to love myself and all other beings, to express loving-kindness, to a neutral attitude, and to a respect of the All, and to the will and the state of events and beings, in and around me.’ This is what these letters whispered, as I breathed in and locked the scent of the dried flowers.
My mother’s musical words expressing the last of her sweet thoughts for the night call me out of my rêverie. I delicately fold the papers as when given to me, and as I hand them over to my mother, I couldn’t help but give her a smile and a nod, I might have bitten my lip a little too. I am satisfied. Thank you Beloved. Only then did it dawn on me how golden some moments are. And how insignificant other moments are, merely wasted on not being golden.
I could tell you more, but then…