Rain

I want to write. I need to write. I have not written in a while. That’s not entirely true. I write all the time. I write for work. I write on social media. I write in my head. But I have not written here. Tapping my fingers on the keyboard and making sounds of release. Letting my words happen as they did many years before. Here it is. Now, I am signaling to myself how alive I could be if I just let this rain pour over me and onto the keyboard, one key at a time. Without a point. With a reason. Many reasons. There they are hidden in the noodle. I do not seek them, but I know where they sit watching like a cat. 

Sobering thoughts: we all die. Not news, but I keep surprising myself when I come to the same conclusion every few weeks. And I do get scared. I fear not being, just like family and friends of the past have ceased to be. They are misty memory that gets diluted with the years. Confused memories collide and are inconsistent among those who remember. At some point, many of them will dissipate. Especially those alive before social media. Then again, the internet could collapse in hundreds of years and kill everyone forever. There is that. A second death. We die once when the heart sleeps. We die again when our existence is forgotten. Someone smart thought about that. I don’t recall who it was, but I think it’s true. And many folks out there seek immortality throughout their time alive. 

By the way, less than one hundred years to be alive. That is terrible. But then again, I am thirty now and it feels like life has gone on forever. I have lived a life worth living already. But I want to keep pushing and grinding, sometimes just to continue and not to stay still like stale water. Old water hosts disease and stinks. Not what Bruce Lee meant when he urged “Be like water, my friend”. Yet I stay still most of the time. And I enjoy it. Looking at the walls and watching people walk. Listening to the sounds of the city and my own breath. 

This is meditation. 

I learned it a few years ago and it brings ease to anxious and restless minds. It kind of helps me. Or I think it helps. Or I convince myself it helps. Even if it does not help and I lie to myself, it helps. I am thinking about sharing this text, but most of my words are stored or lost without someone to read them. I use this as my catharsis, albeit a slow and unexciting one at best. Why write, then? To keep a vault of words. To hoard messages. To remember. To let go and forget. 

I should go. 

The airplane just arrived, and I should hop on or be left in another strange city. That is a story for another time. The words stop here, and I enjoyed being back. I will continue writing on the plane. Writing for myself. Writing in my head. Goodbye.