Wondering.

I wonder who you are.

Of course, I know – sort of – who you are. I know your name. I know your profession and where it is that you work. I know what instruments you play and where you live and what your email address is, and I even have your number. I know that your mother passed this year and I know that you prefer the yellow capsicums and that you like Papermate pens. I know that you drive a blue car and love Fazioli pianos, and that you have two sons and a sister and a wife.

And still, I wonder who you are.

I wonder who you are to have changed my life this much. To have made me see my own potential, to have helped me believe in myself, to have reminded me of who I am. I wonder who you are to have inspired me and to have filled my being with so much awe. I wonder who you are to make me think you are the greatest human being to have walked this earth, and how I feel like you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, that you are a miracle and a gift from God. I wonder who you are to make knowing you feel like a necessity and loving you a fact of life. I wonder who you are to make me feel so blessed and so grateful for your existence I could cry. I wonder who you are to bring so much powerful, unconditional love into my being and into my life when I barely know you at all.

Tell me, please – who are you?

intuition.

It was a gentle voice, perhaps a little shy, nevertheless it spoke with remarkable clarity and confidence; it was so sure of itself it was up neither for arguing neither for rationalising what it had said. It had just said, it just knew, and it had come through underneath all the thinking of your thinking brain.

And the thing is that when you receive a clear message like that, you cannot unhear it. You can pretend not to have heard it, but something will feel strangely off, a little like lying to yourself. You can act like you don’t care about what it said, but no matter how long it has been, you cannot completely forget the voice and its message. Quite the contrary, sometimes it comes back to you powerfully and throws you off balance.

The worst, though, is when that voice tells you something that goes against what almost all who you know say. Can you believe it, can you trust it, when it seems so opposed to everyone else’s opinions, and you have no idea where it comes from, and you are not sure if the voice is even a part of you? Does the voice know anything about the world? Does it see life as it is? Does it have an agenda? Why does it have to communicate exactly the opposite of all that you’ve been advised? Who to trust?

You’re confused for a while, not just because everyone is telling you one thing and a random voice out of nowhere tells you another; but also because that random voice, somehow, seems to have weight, importance – that it is worth listening to, even though it is not backed up by anyone or anything. It stands on its own, obviously not requiring anyone to agree with it. And at the same time, the voice does not come across as arrogant or forceful; rather it sounds like the friend you’ve always wanted to have.

So you decide to listen to that voice, and follow the guidance in its message. And there will be times when you doubt it and start wondering if the voice was right, if you imagined it, and whether it might not have been a lot easier doing what so many people had said to do. But the voice will come in a flash and say,

“I know what I am doing. Your only job is to trust – can you do that?”

Gold nuggets.

It was strange, how predictable the future could be; yet, how it could also surprise her in so many ways.

She had expected them to sit side by side on the couch, with chilled beverages in hand. In fact, it was almost like what she’d predicted: a lively discussion whilst outside, the Saturday sun was making its descent. However, it wasn’t beer they were drinking, but alcoholic lemonade, which he had been only too excited to share with her. And it was neither feelings nor the past they were speaking of, but politics, climate and finances. Despite these incongruities between her imagination of events and their real unfolding, she felt exactly as she had dreamed of herself feeling: strangely comfortable, relaxed and happy. She had expected they would talk for a while, for that seemed always to happen. Eventually, one of them would remember the true purpose of the visit, and they would gently put the discussion aside, to be returned to later.

She had expected herself to get hungry after a while, but she hadn’t expected how natural it had looked for her to stay for dinner. She hadn’t anticipated him not even asking if she’d stay; he had just told her what he had in the fridge, as if her staying had been a given, an obvious fact of life she’d been too blind to see. She hadn’t expected, either, how she’d yet again catch a glimpse of his inner child, affectionately teasing her by handing her the drink in which he’d noticed an ugly little thing floating.

She hadn’t been so surprised that they’d eaten dinner in his room in front of the screen; neither had she been surprised that, of all things they could have watched, they had opted for a documentary about oceans and marine life, even though they both preferred lakes to seas. She hadn’t expected him to tease her by pointing to an ugly fish and saying “that’s you”; and whilst she had envisioned them to have something to laugh about, never had she imagined it would have been about tuna.

She had expected the time to fly, and to have to bid him good night when deep down she longed to stay longer, and be even closer to him. She had expected a few awkward minutes, the awkward minutes when their hearts’ desires were either heard or ignored. She hadn’t expected him to ask her with such ease whether she’d like to stay, as if her staying the night had been a given, an obvious fact of life she’d been too blind to see. And she hadn’t expected herself to follow her own heart’s desire and agree, with just as much ease, to stay.

She had expected him to start kissing her as soon as the lights were turned off, but she hadn’t expected them having to go back upstairs on the couch because of downstairs getting so hot and stuffy. She had expected them to stay awake for a while afterwards, to chat a little, if at all, under the sheets that would be smelling of sweat and cum. Instead, they had sat naked in the darkness on the couch, and had spoken of the movie and other random things in between quiet pauses during which they had caught their breaths.

She had expected they’d have breakfast in the morning, but she hadn’t expected him to offer to cook her his infamous French toast. Neither had she anticipated that, two minutes after telling her he had special secrets for his French toast, he would share those secrets with her. She’d known they would converse over breakfast but she hadn’t expected such a stimulating philosophical conversation, nor that they would end up taking nearly two hours to eat because of it.

All in all, the present was full of surprises hidden in it: moments that were far beyond what her imagination could create. A little like gold nuggets, one could sift through the predictability and find those precious, valuable little things that brought beauty and meaning to absolutely everything else.

the future kiss.

My mind wanders to the memory of the sight of your lips – I must have looked at them a lot the other night. They were a light shade of pink, and almost matched the colour of your shirt. They seemed firm and gentle at the same time, and they were so lovely because you were so often smiling. I know what a kisser you are; I know what a kiss between us can be and turn into – and I want to feel those sweet salmon-coloured lips of yours onto mine once more. Could you see the sparkle of longing in my eyes, the shy lowering of my eyelids, the blush on cheeks warmed by the imagined closeness? Ah, how inviting your lips looked to me!

Perfect.

It was perfect, for I would live it all again, exactly the same way. The same conversations at the same time; the same distance and then the same closeness of our bodies as I hesitantly sat closer to you, and you let me be there near you. I would not change the manner in which our eyes met only frequently, but always so deeply, and seeing in yours that animated light. I would hear again a million times about your wishes and your aspirations, and I would again experience observing you and feeling this joy in my heart, this joy and this gratefulness and even this longing as my wish to connect with you intensified. I would experience again spending hours alone in the room bent over from laughing at the lamest things. I would even live again the confusion of having said one thing and wanting its complete opposite. I would live it all again, this time, this night, these hours. Our story is far from perfect, but the present moment always is.

Living.

It is quiet between us, and the parking lot is empty, save for a car in a corner (yours). I relax in my seat, sliding my hands under my thighs to keep them warm.

I have said all that I wanted to say to you, I think. It is getting late and I should probably go. But the present is so beautiful, so good: I am so comfortable, here in your silent company that I have no desire to be elsewhere. Just here, just now, seems to be all that matters. Perhaps you feel the same way? You are just as quiet as I am. Or are you trying to find the words to tell me something? I cannot tell. This moment is nice. It is simple. Just a car, darkness, silence and two souls. What else is required in life to feel such comfort, such peace, such calmness? The minutes pass by, uninterrupted. I look straight ahead, deep in thought, yet not thinking much at all. Perhaps this is living – simply sitting and breathing, and letting life happen, and being aware of life happening, and witnessing it happen second after second. This moment – or, I guess, this never-ending sequence of moments – is beautiful. I am living, I am alive, here beside you, in your quiet company. And I have no desire to go …

Nature’s wisdom.

You belong no where, Nature said.
You do not belong to any family, for that creates walls with other families.
You do not belong to any person, for that limits your connection to other persons.
You do not belong to any church, for that causes separation from other churches.
You do not belong to any country, for that drives fear of and competition over other countries.
You belong to the place where silence is loud enough for you to realise that by belonging to no where, no thing, no one, you belong everywhere.

The balloon.

She tied a knot and held the balloon at its tied end. She’d blown it up with her own breath, to a size large enough for her to hug it comfortably between her arms. It was a plain blue balloon, simple with no patterns or images on it. She walked outside, still holding the balloon, and was grateful for the gentle wind: the balloon would fly.

She turned on her heels a couple of times to feel the direction of the wind, and forecast the journey of the balloon, and positioning herself so her back was against the wind, she rose the balloon up to her eye level, and then a little higher. And then she simply let it go, without asking it to return, without even a tear in her eyes. She watched the balloon as, carried by the wind, it made its way higher and higher up into the sky, and further and further away from her, out into the Universe.

There would be times at night, days and months after she’d released the balloon, when glancing out the window she would notice, as far up as the stars twinkle, a little ball of light, travelling in its secret direction. Little did she know that this was her balloon, and that at night it glowed from all the love and gratefulness and hope that she’d breathed into it. And one day, when all her dreams came true and she was filled with joy and peace, little did she know that it was her balloon that had exploded, somewhere out in the Universe, and all the love and gratefulness and hope that had been inside it and fallen from the sky, back to the Earth and into her heart.

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