The Joy of Being Alive
I have seen my darkest and brightest days so far and those leave me wondering if anyone also experiences the same exact shade of sorrow and happiness.
I don’t know.
These days I try to be content with not knowing. Feelings are subjective and can’t be measured and compared. Some days I know even shades of gray can sear our souls.
If I can I want to pluck my heart out and compare it with yours.
But I can’t.
I can only weave a tapestry of words and colors on a pallet of letters about it.
I wonder why when children are born, they are crying
I think they can taste the bittersweet air of this world
But my Mom said I was silent and staring
I think I am at loss of words of this world
Our fists are clenched with nothing
Then we hold on to a lot of things
We rely on possessions for our passion
How do I get the joy of being alive?
Sprinkles of it can be found on morning air
Rays of sunlight among green canopies
The taste of warm tea or porridge
Laugh of friends and family
In some serene mornings, I wonder about my future. After two years of grueling nights of the soul, nowadays I sincerely appreciate every bright morning I have. Will I end up lonely and alone? Will I live in abundance? Questions like these are normal recently.
Will everything matter at the end when we are all gone? Also sometimes, I sit in silence observing the faces of my family when we are together. I realize I live in borrowed time. One day, they will be gone or I will. At times like these, melancholy is my new best friend. It means every single moment matters.
Why was I born?
Then again, when the sandglass keeps going, we keep thinking about our solitude and mundane existence. We long for meaning and sudden magic of events in our life, metaphorically wanting to win the lottery of life. It means we have dreams. I still do. It is no longer grandiose knowing I will be gone one day. But it is still great and meaningful.
How do I get the joy of being alive?
Some days are centuries and some days are seconds. I despise time yet am hungry for it.
I think the joy is like flower. It blooms in stillness and has its own time. Some days we observe it and some days we taste it. When time such as this comes, close your eyes and be.
(a note from a serene and joyful morning.)
