My friend Mr Mohan asked me why I stopped, and the question has stayed with me. Why did I stop?
Today I am reconnecting with my own past, through the golden sunshine July morning. I am lying on my sofa with my baby sleeping across me. I am looking up at the images that my partner and I hung on our walls this weekend. Images of a Durer painting and an original drawing of musicians in movement; their wooden frames combine with my giant Cassida plant and I get a sense of
The truth is (hate this phrase - so overused on the telly) The truth is the truth is
Beauty, spirituality, understanding, our hearts, a quickening, despair at not understanding, my feeling of panic at not quite getting there, not quite understanding what it is I'm trying to get to, my fear as it all disappears - wasn't I reading philosophy once? wasn't I well versed in philosophical thought? couldn't I write eloquently before about my thoughts and experiences? but what for? To what end??
-breath-
The panic.
I look at these images about me and feel the past, both mine and history's, open up behind. An expanse opens and the sense of that which is bigger than me.
Only possible when the sun shines.
How easily I forget this. But how sad I am about that too (more panic).
I turn away as I am unable to stay with this feeling. I am unhappy with it. Not realised, not satisfied.
