Tag Archives: story

Stimuli

The only currency that people actually possess is time. Time, in the sense of our own, personal time we have to spend on the Planet. So it becomes of crucial importance whom and what do we spend our time on.

There is no refund for the time spent. There is no contract offered to loan more time in case ours becomes limited. And there is no guarantee that we won’t run out of time at any given point in our lives.

So, don’t tell me the time I spent on you and you spent on me has no value. It’s like investing all your money in building a house and then leaving it empty, leaving it to time to rot and destroy. It’s not even like renting it or leaving it to the homeless people to live in. It’s like absolutely wasting it, locking it, nailing the windows with wood and leaving it to decay.

The question of time always evokes questions about waste. So there are at least two stimuli in a person’s life – making good choices about time and avoid time waste. All else is a subject to negotiation. But time never is.

 

Stimuli

Source – Pinterest. Artist unknown.


In any case

It’s not really about the ground or the neutral state of consciousness of the mob. In any case many people spend most of their lives thinking about nothing in particular and talking about the same. Many people spend most of their lives imitating love and ignoring the same. Trading love for attention or need and chasing away the same. Care and attention wear the mask of love just like beauty wears the mask of wreck. Love is above. Don’t dirty it with casual words, or imitated feelings and actions. Love is above, don’t lower it to complications. Love is simple.

He, in particular, was always talking about some truths that I had not yet discovered, about some things that it would take me months to realize. Sometimes I was thinking that even he didn’t realize what was he doing. It was just so natural for him to spread truth around.

He, particularly, designed his words with the purest of fire. No matter right or wrong, they were pure. My poetry started loosing its meaning and that was a perfect sign for me of my existential collapse. He could not be compared to anything I ever needed to beware. I was ready to give him every piece of my share, just wanted him to meet me there – where every sound was heard loudly and every word spoken bravely.

I tried evoking love to come to him. He was empty though. Empty but not in the ordinary sense of emptiness. He was empty like a hollow guitar that resonated every sound, he resonated every truth, every sense. So I became part of him, of his insights. Wholeness. Now, we just needed to entail love in that space of ours.

He was empty in another sense as well. He was emptied. Emptied by people who didn’t talk about anything in particular, by people who took words for granted, by people who used actions as weapons, and not as representation of feelings.

I was mad at that, furious at those people. I wanted his hollowness to be filled with the sounds of love.

April 2015