There is no room at this inn. No space in this head. Thoughts rise up, hope to be noticed and fall away. The wait is short, hope futile. Creativity a neglected child.
Life is crowded by life, the tedium of routine, the frustration of expectation, the obsession with purpose, the inevitable push forward, forward, forward.
When life is busy, you contract. You narrow your walls. You pull in what matters and you push out what can’t. What you have pushed out still matters, but it has been weighed, measured, ranked and categorised by necessity. Shelved for a time. Forever? Guilt. Grief.
What is this path? Did we choose it? Were we compelled to it? Do we want it?
Thought and reflection is a luxury now, bullied out by the habit of busy.
Have we been lulled into the idea that we have no choice or are we actually paralysed by the choices we have?
Is there wisdom in this life?
The getting of wisdom is in this life. Wisdom comes with hardship, challenge and sometimes the consequence of a poor choice. Is our life any of these things?
Is our life brave? Is it cowardly? Does it matter?
Life is full. Bulging at the seams, an existential question writ large. It bursts with love and simple pleasures, noticed and captured; it weeps at what is missed, smothered by compulsion and noise, so much noise.
There is love here. Great multitudes of pure, sloppy, messy, beautiful love.
I could will myself not to miss it, to observe it, take it in, burn it to my memory, but that makes a work of love and I make a work of everything. I’m tired of making a work of everything. So I guess I’ll just try to love and be loved, because really, that’s all there is.