Stillness is the key.
An essay by a hypocrite.
An essay by a hypocrite.
A work in progress. A tired-eyed wanderer. A not-lone discoverer.
Stillness is the key.
I find myself in poetry, in the gaps between the stories. In small moments to breathe, and the gasp for air, unceasing. In the rise and fall and healing. In all the things that we don’t yet understand and amidst the uncertainty. I see it all and I miss a few things and VUCA is tiresome and mundane and comforting.
I wonder how we ever lived like this.
Before this, even.
I wonder how we ever called that ‘living’.
I wonder whether we’ll believe [in] it again.
For we all need something, someone, to believe in.
To have and to hold. Onto, if nothing else. Stability may be a construct but it’s a valuable one.
For you give me something that makes me scared alright.
And we live to fight another day, of course. And we say of course like it’s obvious, when (of course) it’s not. And we treat it like a ‘fight’ when the only person we’re at war with is ourselves. And sometimes, that can be the hardest battle, but we keep going regardless.
I know and I see you.
I believe [in] you.
I do.
The simple things. Circularity. Stillness is the key. Saturday mornings. Dawn breaking. Brilliant skies. The tinny cry of an ice cream van.
Tell me that you know it’s summer.
Tell me that you haven’t forgotten.
