For what?

Human simplicity = one baffled girl.

It is so easy to know better, and yet at the very same time to allow anything to change the way we see the world. It seems that almost nothing has to happen for us to hate what's before us, to question what we believe, to look around and seem disappointed. In the seconds following, the very same amount of nothing can dramatically move us to face the other way. We have given up power to everyone and everything. Suddenly the definition of who influences what and WHY (why matters) is hazy.

And I don't think that, or therefore we, make(s) sense. Either we're moody or not to be taken seriously. Or we flux with the weather. Or we expect too much and then forget what we wanted in the first place. We're a mess.

So if this is merely our emotions calling, wanting to know where we've been and if they might stop by, if they might move in, even, and take permanent and unforgiving root in everything we do, then I sense trouble. I foresee the necessity of unshakable faith, and in that very breath I doubt our ability to even recognize our mountain-moving abilities, even with every bell and whistle sounding high.

To be plain, I find this quite fucked up. Why not, right? It is not that we find the world inevitably evil or confusing, or because we have destroyed as far as the eye can see. It is also not because we have done anything good, whatever small thing we may have given back to this planet, this place, to each other. Essentially? We do not mean much. But, we mean. We intend, we indicate. We define in the midst of making the most of, and if we cannot do that joyfully, the least, at the very bottom of the edge of the end, we can do is be willful. We can live according to wanting to live.

Having recently been deemed emotional, such a thing I'd dare not argue against, I've (dangerously) tried to understand our constant persuasiveness, our minute-by-minute ability to flip out or close in or crack up or break down. And I don't care for it, to be truthful. I'd take comfort in a tad more predictability. Our variety and uncontainable attraction to it makes us a minefield of broken humanity. We have messed up, badly. We have stopped traveling, or never started. We have stopped standing still, stopped noticing, or never looked. We're twitching around, crying one minute and laughing the next, not making a molecule of sense with our life philosophies, with our mysteries, with our time. We're fretting over history or unfinished business, and in turn, ignoring what we may find before us.

Is it sad? Or is the irony, of even just that question, enough to make our hearts break in unison, a circle of paradox in the form of one long, resounding c-r-a-c-k.

Really, though. I think the only thing wrong with the way we feel things, the way we weigh a moment in the palm of our hand, fuss over it, dissect it, shred its remains, is that when all doors have been closed to it, when all the murmuring ends and when the split-second has gone by, we stay troubled. We still let what we've heard or seen or done, accidentally or otherwise, ruin what remains. Perspective, here and always, is key. We excuse our present condition by our past lives, by what has happened and what we have allowed to happen.

Maybe this. I don't really care for rain. It's untimely. It's ruined the best of our days, our plans that require sunshine, caused accidents, kept us indoors. But knowing, when it comes, how badly we need it? How that simple moisture enlivens our surroundings, looking out the window to the grayness, to the clouds, when thunder sounds and lightning blazes, even as I write this now, is not so bad. It's a temporary condition. We get through it. We are, to be quite dramatic, the better for it.

And when winter closes in again (all too quickly), and everything seems perpetually and possibly forever dead, some other month or moment will roll around and remind me that our world has not died, but merely slept, closed its wide eyes to find some time to dream. In this, there is solace.

There's a downpour, and there is a madness. And all it takes is one corner, one bend in the hypothetical (or perhaps actual) road. And we see that the sky has opened up again, seeming appropriately enormous, full of light, so much, in fact, that you can forget what light has ever looked like before, because here and now, with the still greyness floating up over our heads, is something new.

With this in mind, it would be in our very best interest, I boldly assume, to take our lights as they are given to us, to behold rather than belabor them. Living not necessarily as if it is out of our hands, as if we are victims, as if we have not chosen. And if we can, we might do our best to not bored, or lethargic, or disconnected. We can know what we want, but we must have what we have. No one's asking you to stop here and die here. And if anyone should demand such things of you, you are perfectly entitled to decline. And maybe everything has not gone step by frame by step. But it never does. And if it did, you would want other things.

I'm quite sure we're supposed to think about it. We're supposed to think about what we want without regreting where we now stand. We are to, in our meantime, while we continue to aim, while we keep one eye open, merely realize that our present is, well, present. And in that there is goodness. Unspeakable difficulty, at times, and most likely not at all that you'd imagined. It's rain, perhaps, but not only that. It's promise. It's a continuous resistance to that very human urge to gripe, to label, to over-condemn ourselves.

Make good. It's there to be found. Don't stay forever, if you can't, if you simply aren't able, don't want to, etc. But there's something to be said for deep breath taking.

Start slow. Then start again.