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I have many Ideas. I ponder over them like an obsessive collector; organizing, re-organizing, packing them into words so the meaning is captured, transferable. Most of my transformative experiences are unexplainable - how does one capture the depth of a still, silent night? The whispering of leaves in warm summer breezes. Vague feelings of wholism while sitting in the grass, photosynthesizing like plant ancestors - a fish swims without direction. Many call it god but the church is alienating; the word massacred and butchered beyond the recognition of what it once meant.
One idea I have kept unmolested by the opinions of others, is that these holistic experiences in nature, with friends, live music shows, where the pulse of life beats strongly, are everything. An anchor point for a life well lived. Itās not enough to just be in nature, alchemizing the circumstance missing the key ingredient. A couple of friends and I went on a trip to where the ocean went on forever, unbroken horizon. We were down by the water, sunset and glistening, warmth of the sun and sand beneath my feet. But it was nothing more than looking. I did not have access to this other way of being - locked out, truthfully, by being eaten alive by the stress of exams and stewing in the feelings of being unlovable. It is somehow within you; the trees and ocean reflect it back to me. A quality of self brought out by sincerity and solitude. Itās everything, reflected in everything worthwhile.
Apr 17, 2024
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there is something figuratively beautiful about the things we know and donāt know, the sublime and mundane
and when you visit the beach, do you ever think about if the animals who live in the embrace of the depths remember the beauty of the ocean?
where the salt envelops every single one of us,Ā
accepting us as kin
letting her wind tousle our raw, visceral edgesĀ
and pepper them with her sea-foamed kissesĀ
which tell me that itās okay to pretend
and okay to tell the ocean all of myself
the ocean reaches out to me, hands cloaked in the sharp coolness of water and something else- something i donāt understand
as I poke around in a tide pool, like a vendor at a bustling market, observing the wares that the ocean has to offer
and i turn around and ask her, do the barnacles see themselves? do anemones understand their own beauty, fragile and ephemeral?Ā
i donāt think they do.Ā
but the ocean doesnāt have any words for me, instead shutting my mouth with a shhhhĀ
as her sandy dress rustles down the shore, laced with white foam and gossamer trails of ripples
and wordlessly, tells me to lookĀ
and i do.Ā
until the sun hurriedly retreats from the wispy radiance of the moon, enrobed in puffy clouds
and it's just the three of us.
the moon tugs at the oceanās hand, dancing to their own secret rhythm,Ā
letting me see them in their love.
personally, i think itās beautiful \\ and i wish i had something like it
and the ocean laughs. nothing jeering or ridiculing, simply an acknowledgement that i understand.
everything around me falls,Ā
like petals cast off from a chrysanthemum.
and then, we were wordlessĀ
like the ocean had never spoken in the first place.Ā
i want to descend into the depths of the ocean one day,
to be hugged once more and never again.
not because i am tired of being alive,
but frankly within me exists too much zeal to live.
uncontrollable surges of wow i am alive in flesh, blood through my veins, and thoughts in my head
become more addictive than any form of fentanyl, cocaine, heroinĀ
and better than any gateway into a better lifeĀ
or a better existence, transcending normality
and the moment itās just me in my head, without the viscous energy of being alive
suddenly drains me like a leaking bucket,
decrepit and dry.
i want to burn like a torch, setting my world alight into embers,
into flames,Ā
into an inferno.Ā
Sunrise:: being alight || with a halo of only thoughts and dreams || and the divinity of something new
2d ago
For someone who claims to identify so closely with solitude, uncovering just how tethered I was to the emotions of people I love was a crispy realization. Of course, that attachment is the basis for any kind of relationship. You cannot claim to āhave someoneā in your life if you do not feel some kind of emotional connection towards them. The stronger the connection, the stronger the relationship. We all know this. However, there is something to be said about a relationship that is ātoo goodā; a bond so strong due to its shocking lack of tension. In hindsight of various broken and fragmented connections Iāve been apart of, any relationship that exists while remaining entirely unscathed now kind of terrifies me.
I believe there can be such a thing as ātoo much loveā, and I think those who have given or received it know when they have done so. Itās a mistake anyone is capable of making. Imagine a relationship so polished, free from any erosion (visible or otherwise); seemingly perfect. This type of connection can only be established through a building of trust and an abundance of time. However, Iāve come to learn that the more impeccable bonds tend to break easy when faced with their first real blow. Birds only crash into the cleanest of glass.
*"If music be the food of love, play on; / Give me excess of it...*"
I donāt want excess. For the food of love, I am no glutton. I eat until I am full and push my plate aside. I used to love like my life depended on it. I put those people whom I adored on the highest of pedestals, framed them in my gallery and admired new details every time we shared a visit. Maybe I just hadnāt been wronged enough to ever think that I could be wounded by those I dote on so heavily. What is it with loving and being loved that makes feeling hurt seem so impossible? Why must love shatter all preconceived expectations of what emotion is? Is love really so massive, so gargantuan that it conquers all other feeling?
Yes, and no. At least thatās what I think. This is all just what I think. I donāt want to come across as some great romantic or lovesick puppy or old friend. Iām just trying to figure out the right way to love, like everyone else.
Mar 16, 2025
šŖŗ
Bereft of a true home, I dwell instead in sentiment and practice the collection of numerous small tokens thereof: an olive-pin, a tea-tag, a berry-shell, a fortune. I treasure the incitement of memory brought about by these little markers in time-passed, as I do that incited by the more obvious strains: postcards and Polaroids and locks of hair ā¦ and these too I try to accumulate, these too light me! But perhaps what is most meaningful is the undisplayable ā that which is gone ā letters received and lost, letters writ and never sent and lost; a poem misplaced in the loose-leaf of a moulting notebook. A garland of flowers or bouquet that remains only in a blurred photograph; a collection of photographs drowned in a flood. Since my adolescence, some of most beautiful pictures Iāve made on my cameras have been the nonexistent ā the mechanisms failed or my Nosferatuesque fingers blocked the lens or or the memory card betrayed me or the film was overexposed through actions entirely beyond control ā yes, the most beautiful, I say! It is just so. I can picture them all behind my eyes in perfect clarity ā so so beautiful ā as beautiful as the flowers that nevermore will fragrance a room and all those words which forevernow lay unread. I canāt speak exactly to the wider benefit of this ārecommendationā. But somehow this is the sort of thing that makes me happy.
May 10, 2023
Top Recs from @sun
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Ripping into fruits on a hot summers day, juice dribbling down my exposed chest pooling at my feet. Sitting in cool river streams, a part of the natural world around me. Not a thought beyond the immediate. Stuff like that.
Jul 10, 2024
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These are a few that stick out to me; a good place to start, no particular order
- be here now, Ram Dass. Very dear to my heart, there is nothing else like it. there are also many hours of his lectures recorded for ur listening pleasure
- letters to a young poet, Rainer Rilke. letters heās written; he discusses solitude, relationships, art, always with the undercurrent of spirituality
- book of hours, Rilke. love poems to god, I like the Barrows and Macy translation. Iām currently reading it
- new seeds to contemplation, Thomas Merton. Merton is a good one to read, heās got lots of work; go pick through
- lord of the rings, Tolkien. i feel that it is a deeply spiritual text. the prose makes me cry, the reverence of Nature speaks to my heart
I like to listen to James Finleyās podcast turning to the mystics because my current interest is contemplative christianity.
Pete Holmes sometimes has interesting guests, as does Duncan trussel, who talk about spirituality from varying traditions.
I never felt a great affinity for Alan Watts but u could give him a listen
Apr 18, 2024