|—||Pema Chödrön (via purplebuddhaproject)|
I climbed down to some tracks a few weeks ago where a train had derailed itself. If I watched the news, I might have known more before adventuring down with a former friend. It was such a strange sight. I don’t want to call it beautiful, but there was an odd and very rustic appeal in witnessing the aftermath of the wreckage. It made me ponder the idea that machinery is fallible like all else in this world.
Then my friend and I were chased down by a man in a truck guarding the sight, and we left of our own volition after conferring with him, both quickly and politely.
My life is something funny.
I can’t decide if it’s peculiarity that makes it so, or just that I have a strange sense of humor.
I got to thinking in the passenger seat of said friend’s car that life has no intrinsic or external meaning. There is nothing outside of existence that can be fathomed, simply because nothing cannot exist outside of what already is. I have no god to thank, no creator that made me imagery. I am not personified of something supposedly better than myself. I am here in this beautiful, physical world with this body, this ‘shell.’ There are lungs that allow me to breathe, a heart that pumps blood through me, limbs I use to move and act with, and most importantly, a brain to let me experience it all. Consciousness is a natural gift of vast wonder. For that, I am so glad.
I am the luckiest human being to have realized that our lives are rare. It sounds so simple, but I feel it. I have said it before and I’ll say it again:
There is beauty in brevity. When I’m to die someday like those before me, I will be recycled into this universe from which I arose.
You are just a shell that arrived before me on starlit nights,
tattered and torn by the waves that brought you.
We were like the high tide:
violent, powerful, and crashing.
We were the moon:
always amplifying itself or waning into less.
We were an exploding star:
a gorgeous sight to witness
but something nearing an end.
And I do not burn for you anymore.
I threw you back.
|—||Alan Watts. Philosopher (via purplebuddhaproject)|
|—||Dalia Mogahed (via thelittlephilosopher)|
My creative writing professor told me to stop
writing about love. I asked him why and he said,
“Because you have turned it over and over in your hands,
felt every angle, every fault, every inch,
every bruise. You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spent the next 3 weeks writing about science
and space. Stars exploding.
Getting sucked into a black hole.
How much I wished I could sleep inside of that nothingness
without being annihilated. What an exploding star
would taste like. If it would make our stomachs glow
like fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks
under our tongue.
My creative writing professor told me that those poems
weren’t what he was looking for.
He tells me to stop writing about outer space.
Stop writing about science.
Again, I ask him why. Again, he says,
“You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spend the next three weeks writing about my mother,
how we are told we can’t make homes inside
of other human beings, but the foreclosure sign
on my mother’s empty womb tells me that women
who give birth know a different,
more painful truth.
My creative writing professor tells me I am both talented
and hopeless, that everything I write is both visceral and empty,
a walking circus with no animals inside
but a beautiful trapeze artist with a broken hip
selling popcorn in the entrance-way.
He tells me to stop writing about my mother. I don’t ask why.
I pick up my books and my notepad
and I leave his office with my war stories
tucked under my tongue like an exploding star,
like the taste of the last person I ever loved,
like my mother’s baby thermometer, and I do not look back.
We are all writing about our mothers, our lovers,
the empty space that we will never be able to breathe in.
We are all carrying stones in our pockets
and tossing them back and forth in our hands,
trying to explain the heaviness
and we will never stop writing about love,
about black holes, about how quiet it must have been
inside the chaos of my mother’s belly,
inside the chaos of his arms,
inside the chaos of the spaces in every poem
I have ever written.
None of this is ruined.
Do not listen to them when they tell you that it is.
|—||Caitlyn Siehl, “My Creative Writing Professor Told Me to Stop Writing About Love” (via alonesomes)|
Lucy Christopher, Stolen