Poetry
On Attention and Creation
One’s existence is a manifestation of the universe. Without boundaries or explanations. Excuses or reasons. Circumstances or destinations. One exists while the wind blows and the waves crash. Dynamic. Eternal. My naivety is a double-edged sword. A weapon. It took me three lives to learn that.
In my first life, I was a swallow. All I could think about was flying. Sometimes, I used to enjoy looking at the street. I never understood the movement of cars and people. They came and went in opposite directions. Up and down. Why? I did not know. The warmth of the sun on my feathers comforted me. The winter winds in my eyes lulled me. I never flew higher than an airplane. No need to. My life was on balconies and in the treetops. Now and then, I would meet a throstle. Or a hummingbird. And other swallows. To be a vessel for my friends’ existence, I needed to step back from myself, empty my soul, and open up for something greater. I enjoyed the solitude and the sunset. What was the reason for those pointy buildings? Why are there stairs? What was the purpose of flying? I did not know. I was only a swallow. All I knew was how to fly and contemplate.
Until one day, I became a man and decided to love.
Not hurried love, but present and honest. Never wanting to hurt or hide, but rather give and accept. Past experiences introduced me to the suspicion of loving. The hummingbirds’ sorrow upon a flower’s death was dreadful. But soon, they and I looked at the fruit from their pain. It bore the seeds for a greater beginning. I was ready, I told myself. Upon transformation, I saw another fellow looking for belonging. His hazel eyes and anxious smile gave me a feeling of connection, a potential, like branches of a tree reaching into the spring. I obeyed my fleshy heart, delivered my spirit, and abdicated from my mind. When suddenly, absence.
From the silence, a shameful request to stop the ornamentation of the path, the constructions of the mansions of my Interior Castle, and all the hopes. An abrupt force drew me from myself and threw me into the darkness like a falling Icarus.
My entrance to Dante’s Inferno. An upside-down castle with large doors and windows. Each floor alternated between the coldness of the Siberian winter and the hotness of the Sahara summer. Between foundations, the stairs challenged my consciousness into believing I must regress to the stage of incorruptible love. However, I was torn and sore. My legs could not sustain the emptiness and limbo of my heart. Coming back was tempting, but also pointless. The lust for something that did not exist anymore was consuming my spirit. Moving downwards was the way to go. I had a great gluttony for myself. It was me and my pity. The mirror grimaced my greed. I needed to reach the bottom of my soul. I had forgotten how to fly. My reality was before me as downwards spiraling stairs.
My mouth is closed, and my hands are empty. Shut in a fist of anger. My soul has only discovered the restlessness and the agony. There is a deep anxiety in my chest that will prevent me from sleeping. My heart beats irregularly. A lump in the cry. A numbness in the pain. Heresy.
There are certain truths we cannot overcome, such as the chronology of events and the certainty of death. And nonetheless, the solitary violence of Valentine’s Day.
Nearing the end of my last life, I doubted myself. Is a life without passion worth living? What if grit is lacking? What if my mind is empty? Does my humanhood depend on the externality of my body and full awareness of my emotions? Am I a fraud? When did I decide to accept the game instead of changing the rules? My friend’s mother died, and I cried. I sorrowed the death of someone I had never met. Perhaps fairness was never a player in this puzzle of life. Remembrance’s last fall. How can I make this feeling into something that does not pass, nor something that I do not forget, but something that stays and delivers freedom? I do not want to ignore my scars, but grow with them. Through them. Like a soil that carries ungerminated seeds. A door that is never closed. A house that was once inhabited. A dance without song. A laugh without a joke. A love without a reason. I had reached the treachery of my mind.
Through my lives of suffering, I was able to see the extraneous pain. Rational frameworks could not contain my understanding. It reminded me of a previous life when I used to listen without speaking. Now, however, my whole body has shut down. Carrying on showed possible only through the courage to create from chaos. Each bifurcation in the logistic map showed me a chance of survival. I am only able to advance in the game, if I throw my dice. It was due time to move on without completeness by deliberately offering Weil’s attention. I met divinity by embracing my flesh and letting go of myself. Immeasurable power I was granted: the power of creation through attention. In whatever I put my thoughts and my heart into, there it was. When I noticed your face, listened to your struggle, and observed the coming and going of cars on my balcony, there you were. I created a space where only you could exist and be yourself. I became an amplifier that receives before reacting.
The escape from my odyssey did not mean returning to the starting point. However, it meant disrupting the logical and predictable assumptions of my experience and creating something unique from my emptiness and solitude. One can still find peace through agony by reaching the bottom of their soul and spirit. By emptying oneself. I envied those with lovers, stable places, and fulfilling jobs. Poor those, they would never get to know the creation through suffering. The ability to fly without wings and the possibility to love without purpose.
In my first life, I was a swallow. All I could think about was flying. Sometimes, I used to enjoy looking at the street. I never understood the movement of cars and people. They came and went in opposite directions. Up and down. Why? I did not know. The warmth of the sun on my feathers comforted me. The winter winds in my eyes lulled me. I never flew higher than an airplane. No need to. My life was on balconies and in the treetops. Now and then, I would meet a throstle. Or a hummingbird. And other swallows. To be a vessel for my friends’ existence, I needed to step back from myself, empty my soul, and open up for something greater. I enjoyed the solitude and the sunset. What was the reason for those pointy buildings? Why are there stairs? What was the purpose of flying? I did not know. I was only a swallow. All I knew was how to fly and contemplate.
Until one day, I became a man and decided to love.
Not hurried love, but present and honest. Never wanting to hurt or hide, but rather give and accept. Past experiences introduced me to the suspicion of loving. The hummingbirds’ sorrow upon a flower’s death was dreadful. But soon, they and I looked at the fruit from their pain. It bore the seeds for a greater beginning. I was ready, I told myself. Upon transformation, I saw another fellow looking for belonging. His hazel eyes and anxious smile gave me a feeling of connection, a potential, like branches of a tree reaching into the spring. I obeyed my fleshy heart, delivered my spirit, and abdicated from my mind. When suddenly, absence.
From the silence, a shameful request to stop the ornamentation of the path, the constructions of the mansions of my Interior Castle, and all the hopes. An abrupt force drew me from myself and threw me into the darkness like a falling Icarus.
My entrance to Dante’s Inferno. An upside-down castle with large doors and windows. Each floor alternated between the coldness of the Siberian winter and the hotness of the Sahara summer. Between foundations, the stairs challenged my consciousness into believing I must regress to the stage of incorruptible love. However, I was torn and sore. My legs could not sustain the emptiness and limbo of my heart. Coming back was tempting, but also pointless. The lust for something that did not exist anymore was consuming my spirit. Moving downwards was the way to go. I had a great gluttony for myself. It was me and my pity. The mirror grimaced my greed. I needed to reach the bottom of my soul. I had forgotten how to fly. My reality was before me as downwards spiraling stairs.
My mouth is closed, and my hands are empty. Shut in a fist of anger. My soul has only discovered the restlessness and the agony. There is a deep anxiety in my chest that will prevent me from sleeping. My heart beats irregularly. A lump in the cry. A numbness in the pain. Heresy.
There are certain truths we cannot overcome, such as the chronology of events and the certainty of death. And nonetheless, the solitary violence of Valentine’s Day.
Nearing the end of my last life, I doubted myself. Is a life without passion worth living? What if grit is lacking? What if my mind is empty? Does my humanhood depend on the externality of my body and full awareness of my emotions? Am I a fraud? When did I decide to accept the game instead of changing the rules? My friend’s mother died, and I cried. I sorrowed the death of someone I had never met. Perhaps fairness was never a player in this puzzle of life. Remembrance’s last fall. How can I make this feeling into something that does not pass, nor something that I do not forget, but something that stays and delivers freedom? I do not want to ignore my scars, but grow with them. Through them. Like a soil that carries ungerminated seeds. A door that is never closed. A house that was once inhabited. A dance without song. A laugh without a joke. A love without a reason. I had reached the treachery of my mind.
Through my lives of suffering, I was able to see the extraneous pain. Rational frameworks could not contain my understanding. It reminded me of a previous life when I used to listen without speaking. Now, however, my whole body has shut down. Carrying on showed possible only through the courage to create from chaos. Each bifurcation in the logistic map showed me a chance of survival. I am only able to advance in the game, if I throw my dice. It was due time to move on without completeness by deliberately offering Weil’s attention. I met divinity by embracing my flesh and letting go of myself. Immeasurable power I was granted: the power of creation through attention. In whatever I put my thoughts and my heart into, there it was. When I noticed your face, listened to your struggle, and observed the coming and going of cars on my balcony, there you were. I created a space where only you could exist and be yourself. I became an amplifier that receives before reacting.
The escape from my odyssey did not mean returning to the starting point. However, it meant disrupting the logical and predictable assumptions of my experience and creating something unique from my emptiness and solitude. One can still find peace through agony by reaching the bottom of their soul and spirit. By emptying oneself. I envied those with lovers, stable places, and fulfilling jobs. Poor those, they would never get to know the creation through suffering. The ability to fly without wings and the possibility to love without purpose.