Delirious Minds

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I was thinking on how today as the sun sets in the valley of countless multi-color clouds, the moon will rise. It will rise telling the story of her past loves, kissing the stars in the bittersweet agony of a broken heart. The next morning will be Monday; well, isn’t that a relief. The days pass by but your memories remain still. Not speaking a word, not saying how you feel. Silence… that’s all I hear. In the crowds you stand out, so different, so remarkable, looking for change. A bizarre idea, a belief of hope. But once again, perhaps the most important thing we bring to another person is the silence in us, not the sort of silence that is filled with unspoken criticism or hard withdrawal. The sort of silence that is a place to refuge, of rest, of acceptance of someone and as they are. We are all hungry for this other silence. It is hard to find. In its presence we can remember something beyond the moment, a strength on which to build a life. Silence is a place of great power and healing.

Sometimes, whenever I look outside at the night sky through my window I wish upon a star. Knowing that wishes don’t always come about in the way that we think, but if you believe and keep your mind open, there’s a really good chance they will manifest in some way. Because even though I didn’t realize it at the time, that was exactly what my night star did for me. Now is Tuesday morning and the sun is shining bright. Its vivid colors representing eternal life. A strong soldier fighting against the dark. The day keeps on going, I see many faces rushing up and down the halls; almost as if they had no time to even say “hello”. Despite the fact that they walk along with extremely long faces, left me wondering what could make them so sad. The night was approaching, and I fell right into her arms, falling asleep in serenity. Felt like years of an eternal peace inside.

It’s Wednesday and the sky cries. The birds are not singing, the animals are not running around, not even the squirrel that jumps from tree to tree every morning has bothered to come outside. I remember a huge tiredness coming over me, a kind of lethargy in the face of the tangled mess before me. It was like being given a thousand math problems when your brain is exhausted, and you know there is some far-off solution, but you can’t work up the energy even to give it a go. I remained still in that moment. I was there. I wasn’t aware of anything else but the sound of the rain. I was stuck on that deep instance were as if the sound became a part of my heart-beat, were I felt it running down my veins.

We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself. That is why life is always like a sketch. No, “sketch” is not quite the word, because a sketch is an outline of something; the groundwork for a picture, whereas the sketch is our life, is a sketch for nothing, an outline with no picture… It’s Thursday and every day is procrastination, trying to get work done. Trying to keep it moving, making mistakes and hopefully learning from them. People come up to me asking non-sense questions. I’ve got nothing; nothing to say. We are all ignorant of our true feelings, we are all hiding from them. Why? Why are we so scared? There nothing more beautiful in its simplest form than to love and being loved. I have learned that love^__the beauty of it, the joy of it, and yes, even the pain of it^__is the most incredible gift to give and to receive as a human being.

It’s Friday. “Party-day”, as many people say. Meanwhile, I find myself writing articles, and letters I am sure I will never send. I’m talking about philosophy and some old Beatles’ song. Quoting book titles that resonate deep inside my bones. “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for”^__Dead Poets Society, 1989.

It’s Saturday and a whole week has almost passed by. I think I probably have wrote a thousand pages worth nothing. All of them talking about how ironic things toured out to be. I found my old shoe box, the one filled with old love letters, photos and unwrapped gifts. This is what I like about photographs. They’re proof that once, even if just for a heartbeat, everything was perfect. It was all. It was my small infinite of perfection. I think it’s such a funny thing. We look back in time and never realize that we had it all. We really did. I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Not even the slightest portion of my imagination could’ve ever guess that this was it. And that there’s so much more yet to come! I suppose we miss what we had and never came back, but just picture this; maybe tomorrow might come and surprise you, knock you off your feet and it could be your greatest accomplishment yet.

We are back to Sunday, the moon still cries over her lost unforgotten love. I know the sun will rise in the morning demanding for work. I realize I will write limitless pages of stories that still don’t have an end. Time will not stop and won’t settle, it will make you grow and show your true colors reflecting who you are. In the agony of the night the sleepless lovers find a new story to write. The hopeless romantics seek for an eternal charm to keep them alive in the shadowy mist of the black sky. In the morning, a whole angry mob of realistic creatures try to conquer a non-stop journey also known as life. Try to make a mark, leave a legacy. Who knows, tomorrow can be the first blank page of a 365 page book. Remember to write a good one.