A white rose smells like living. I breathe it in to remind myself what it is to be missed from this dense embrace of Right-here-right-now.
A red rose looks like lure. I stare at it so that the fire in me sees it and tries to imitate it. Monkey see, monkey do can be used for good.
A lily looks like lust and smells like letting go. One can use them to let it go, literally.
The most relaxing sound is the laughter of a human challenged on their strongest territory, that innocent giggle mixed with the deeper spasms of hubris, evoking the joy of being close enough to the wounded gazelle.
In early mornings when the air is cool and it smells like dew, when the night faded, yet daylight is still not paying attention to me, I feel like me.
A tree is a thought, a forest an entire mind. I like to remember that they grow downwards, grounded in thin air and stuck with their roots searching for the center of the world.
A deep carpet of dead leafs is the unexplainable and the wind swirling them into invisible spirals is the fascination the unexplainable begets.
Metaphor is the map we use to navigate our geography of knowledge. A language is some signage on the map: which are the roads to walk on, what depicts topography, where is there some water around. I also carry my compass of belief on which I see which way is north. When my beliefs shatter, I can always look up to the sky inside myself to search for the shine of my heart, which is visible only at night, and always points my north. When I believe, it’s a constant day inside! It’s the angst that sets the sun of my drive.
We’re metaphor first creatures. I am one at least. Will you be one too? It’s more fun, the more you learn, to map the knowledge together.
Does a cat’s purr and thinly sliced pupils make you feel like they know everything and won’t tell? Does a child’s laughter look like spring? Only sometimes?
A warm sand beach with playful waves poking at it in relentless joy is the home I long for. Unlike Camus I cannot lose the sea, I never had it. Maybe only my sea of wonder, but this kind of sea doesn’t make poverty sumptuous for me. Poverty is still the wasteland incarceration of potential.
I would be a good space traveler because I love long walks. Long walks consume eagerness away. Eagerness is tiresome, like the apple fruit that hangs so heavy that it almost breaks the branch, but won’t just fall already, like that rosebud that failed to spark the blooming and it rests frozen into its failure.
You cannot find Jesus. I am dead serious. Once Jesus gets on the map, it gets in the map. Not a christian? Fear not, all religion will remap the map, for they all spill their supreme metaphors on the ones you carefully have drawn so far, smudging your knowledge, asking for your determined detachment right after it blew into the whims of the wind the intricate sand mandala of your soul.
See above? You can teleport inside your geography of knowledge: the subject is the portal. Unhappy with your setting? Change the subject. Are you the subject? Are you a subject?
I like to look at hands doing things. They are, for me, the reason we grew this world inside. We owe our brains to our fingers. When life got fingers it could finally put the universe on its pottery wheel.
Look at these letters right in front of you, these signs with the power of triggering your feelings, of changing your mind, of calling you into a place of common exploration, of rising your blood pressure, of making you blush because someone might know they made you horny and or childish. A letter, a sometimes curly line summoning then fiddling with time itself. See the efficiency of life?
Communication is all about a one on one shared map make believe.
My language is not made of letters though. I am a poor cartographer. On purpose. The roads of my knowledge map, all lead to treasure hunts. The water is sometimes an illusive oasis, other times a river of seas to get lost into. Cities of things I think about, villages of things I never understood, wilderness of serendipity testing the cadence of the sane cause and effect rhythm of my constant questioning, aroused by this silent reality’s ends that just won’t meet.