I've been away. I went to a place where I felt alive. Now that I'm back, I feel I'm slowly dying again and I have to wonder how it is that I 'lived' like
this for so long, especially knowing now what 'being alive' feels like. I recall my last post, something about vast expanses of desert between oases. I must concede, when you go on holiday and pitch a tent in one of those oases, it's very hard packing up and setting out again. How do we do it? Are our memories so fleeting and our attention spans so short? We become the walking dead and we don't mind if we do. We forget. We forget pain, that's a given, but unfortunately it seems, we also forget pleasure. We forget how sunrises over a sparkling ocean made us smile. We forget how insignificant we felt when our fingers traced the salty grooves of volcanic rock, how our lungs renewed themselves with clean air, how our bare feet cracked the glassy, wet sand on an afternoon jog along the shore, how we poked sticks in holes where crabs shifted elusively. How do we recapture these deceivingly simple moments in our daily monotony where we get ourselves in such a predictable routine, that our bodies begin moving before we do. Does remembering the beauty in those precious moments, make it easier or harder to merely exist? The fond memories may make us smile for a moment, fill us with a warm glow, but that same glow could cast a harsh light on our pathetic lives. Perhaps it is, for this reason that we would prefer to live in the dark, for as the saying goes, what you don't know, doesn't hurt you.
