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Creating Flow

The Freedom To Be

The fuzziness. A vague mental cloud cover. Sitting in the head.  Not doing anything, just sitting. Occupying space, like a rain cloud covering the once bright blue sky. He watches it from a distance. How far? About five feet or could be five billion miles. How does one measure the self, watching the self? It is not so much of a watching, but more of a containment. As though the cloud cover is contained in a larger space. Like a 3D image paying on a blank white screen. Except that the screen is not a two dimensional flat object, but a hologram. A huge hollow space that contains all. How big is this hollowness? Is it contained in another hollow?

No answers come.

Does this makes sense? Does it need to? For whom? Is writing an expression for the writer or does he have an obligation for the reader to understand? Most of his life he spent trying to understand and be understood, without much success. Trying hard to measure up. To achieve according to the parameters of success defined and approved by others. To please an imaginary audience sitting inside his head. Judging, approving, condemning. A tiring business.

Like art why can’t writing be abstract he wonders? Why are words supposed to make sense? To arranged in a logical sequence that makes sense to the reader. What is sense?

No answers come.

The mental fuzziness withdraws somewhat, like a receding hairline of a balding man. What is sense, some answers come, like a picture revealing itself slowly, but not clear enough to make sense. He waits. He observes what is emerging. Without an intent. He waits………………….Nothing comes. Only a dull drowsiness in his eyes, making him want to lie down and embrace the oblivious to the world state. Suddenly a point of pain appears on his back, left upper side. It disappears as soon as it comes, like a twittering sparrow alighting on a balcony ledge on its way to another destination. He wonders if it was a travelling pain moving from one human to another. Why would pain travel he wonders?

No answers come.

Memories of his childhood filter in. Writing English essays. Eagerly awaiting the highest marks in class from his English teacher Mr. Massey. Writing to fit in. Writing to make sense. Writing to compete. Writing to be the best. It was the sensible thing to do. It made sense. Over the years he discovered how sense killed sensitivity. Like a delicate tender bud, trampled under the heavy boots of conformity. Tenderness had no place in human education. It cannot be measured. He could not qualify in it. It could not be employed in factories to produce goods. It could not feed the hungry? Neither could it fight wars. It did not make sense. Yet it never left him, no matter how hard he tried to strip himself of it. Like quickly wanting to get rid of a white piece of clothing in a community that wore and rewarded only black. He did not want to be the ugly tender duckling. He wanted to be one of them. One with them. Even at the cost of getting rid of what was intrinsically his. Why did he do that?

No answers come.

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