matter, events, and even, or most importantly, feelings are so transitory. i sit at one window and watch the sunset one moment. i bask in its glow. i blink. or i sleep. when i open my eyes next, it is drizzling outside in a bright afternoon. even my window has changed. it is not oaky, varnish-y, angular anymore; it is splintered and weathered. so what do i do then? storm? rage?
a few months back, when i was able to see it, a part of me would laugh at this see-sawing. now i don't even feel that need. now it is knowledge, that existence has a lot of see-sawing. now, while i exist about and also see-saw, i also watch. i am the lizard with eyes always open.
[sleep is a strange rejoinder. strange not so much in itself, but the starkness of the different realities it enjoins. while one side of the night rocks and wheels, the other side emerges as mundane and calm. sleep is a curious netherworld. in the nether-dust, i sometimes meet slivers of myself in emphatic truths. and later, i forget. but sometimes, i remember, and go, "oh!"]
when so many waves arise, and i know they are waves, why would i ride them? i do not feel like. i do not feel like reading the news. are these not a few of the trillion bubbles that arise and burst, arise and burst? why en-bubble then?
'pursuit of happiness.' can happiness be pursued? isn't it that wave that will eventually tide down? or that bubble that will ultimately burst? i do not want to pursue. pursuit seems to be a force acting in opposite direction of Truth. why then? and what for? that 'butterfly' of Ruskin Bond?
"For all its hardships and complications, life is simple. And a nature that doesn't sue for happiness often receives it in large measure.
Happiness is a mysterious thing, to be found somewhere between too little and too much. But it is as elusive as a butterfly, and we must never pursue it. If we stay very still, it may come and settle on our hand. But only briefly. We must savour those moments, for they will not come our way very often..."
i am still. but not for that butterfly. fly-butter can come when it wants. i am just still. i am a still lizard with eyes always open. and i am gurgling with contentment.
P.S. the title is a misnomer. still, just, love the word.
a few months back, when i was able to see it, a part of me would laugh at this see-sawing. now i don't even feel that need. now it is knowledge, that existence has a lot of see-sawing. now, while i exist about and also see-saw, i also watch. i am the lizard with eyes always open.
[sleep is a strange rejoinder. strange not so much in itself, but the starkness of the different realities it enjoins. while one side of the night rocks and wheels, the other side emerges as mundane and calm. sleep is a curious netherworld. in the nether-dust, i sometimes meet slivers of myself in emphatic truths. and later, i forget. but sometimes, i remember, and go, "oh!"]
when so many waves arise, and i know they are waves, why would i ride them? i do not feel like. i do not feel like reading the news. are these not a few of the trillion bubbles that arise and burst, arise and burst? why en-bubble then?
'pursuit of happiness.' can happiness be pursued? isn't it that wave that will eventually tide down? or that bubble that will ultimately burst? i do not want to pursue. pursuit seems to be a force acting in opposite direction of Truth. why then? and what for? that 'butterfly' of Ruskin Bond?
"For all its hardships and complications, life is simple. And a nature that doesn't sue for happiness often receives it in large measure.
Happiness is a mysterious thing, to be found somewhere between too little and too much. But it is as elusive as a butterfly, and we must never pursue it. If we stay very still, it may come and settle on our hand. But only briefly. We must savour those moments, for they will not come our way very often..."
i am still. but not for that butterfly. fly-butter can come when it wants. i am just still. i am a still lizard with eyes always open. and i am gurgling with contentment.
P.S. the title is a misnomer. still, just, love the word.
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