.What is Life.
It would appear that life has a tendency to get in the way of all this living I can only dream about, lately — and I have found it more easy to give into life, than to living.
Life is all the illusion, while in living the illusion is only ourselves, attempting to foreshadow a pre-conceived existence; to carve out our names in thick slabs of forest and mountain; to proclaim WE were here — this is, at least, the dream.
While in life, we slave in sought of this illusion, collecting pebbles for the paths we will lay, in efforts of turning our pre-conceived existence into a reality — and why?
Why must we slave?
Why do we simply not exist as intended, following passion and the many whims within ourselves that force growth, understanding, and define who we truly are?
Why do we not explore the furthest corners within ourselves — for a living, and in depth — and open all the windows within to let inside the breeze? Surely this alone should be a life worth living.
So why must we be slaves?
Why do my friends laugh because I’d rather stay home than dive in bars, or strip-clubs, anymore? Do they not feel it yet too, the looming of our poor decisions? Is it laughter that feeds their futures? Spending frivolously what I see can be better saved or resourced lays heavy on my every decision, it seems — making me restless some nights — as the living gets in the way of life, until life becomes all about saving and not much about living, at all, anymore.
But isn’t that the point of life?
.P.
