Breath in. 5…4…3…2…one I saw a nix sitting on a branch of a fig tree, dipping her toes into the stream of water below her. creating ripples that waned and faded. She looked sad on this beautiful Armenian night, perhaps it was the shadow she carried that whispered chaos in her mind.
Breath out. 1…2..3.4 five, every living creature has a mind, and is therefore equally important. The Owl on the spitz of the old fig was not more relevant than the Nix, and my life is worth the same as hers. I wondered if she could have been sad because the presence of the moon on this night was divine and she wished she could bottle up the milky way and the falling stars, or she wasn’t mindful enough to realise she was more than the feelings she allowed to overwhelm her thoughts;
the state if mind where she wanted the night to schatter into broken shards, prick her skin so she could feel her life force… or anything really. swallow her whole and drop her off the face of the earth.
She couldn’t speak stillness to the old fig, or reach out to touch the elusive moon. The lines between her reality and her reflection were blurred by a spurring internal conflict that could be solved by a drop of presence.
On this beautiful Armenian night I crouched next to her and told her to live in the moment, exactly how it was, listening to her heart beat, not wanting more or expecting less. Every day nature weaves a balance of subtle miracles before our ever dreaming eyes. If we’re lucky, our hearts can capture every butterfly smile our irises have yet to see.
With each fleeting moment, I am confronted by what is, and what isn’t. This is seemingly a colloquial thought, one might argue that the things we see and feel are meant to be and that’s it. If we allow ourselves to reach beyond our psyche and tap into unprecedented knowledge, it may become more feasible that ‘what is’ stems from what exists as much as what is felt, and the interfacing harmony of it. It is the interpretation of time, space, and soul as the core of our existence. It is something that is intangible and unquestionably fleeting. It is what René Descartes summed up in five words.
There was a time that I thought being imaginative was a delirious habit. I’d stare at a blanc wall and a tumultuous mind would recreate that wall in the most alluring, pristine way and even add dimensions to it. Whether I realised it then, or not, this was a form of existing consciousness. Then along came the Ego, the imposter I assumed to be the real me, he’d coax me into believing how awful that imagination was.
Of course he’s right, it’s only a boring wall.
Except that it’s not. It’s whatever I want it to be because I could seat in the core of the soul, where distilled emptiness and silence harmonises the wall to my creative desire. In a way, it is a knowledge that redefines artistry and philosophy, including writing. Therefore, I employ us to tap into that seat of consciousness, never-mind what the Ego thinks. It isn’t real, but you are. Your mind can either establish or annihilate you, and I believe that in our own little world, we can be heroes.