A spectator
The more I live, the less order I find in the world. Inequality, chaos, and injustice permeate it, destroying absolutes and challenging my concept about how the world works--or "should work" according to the frail model formed in my psyche. But the more I see that order wash away, the less I care--in a liberating way.
This past week, continuing into this late night, I've felt like a spectator. I see the world unfold without my hands to pry the petals apart. It lives beyond me, without me. People walk across the globe, caught up in their own lives, sharing a sun and a ground, but little else, making their dreams, chasing their joys, building relationships with those around them. Even the most sedentary live like itinerants, whisked along the road of time.
I imagine us all like kids on a playground in winter. We huddle together with whatever we can, requiring strength to brace ourselves against the winds of reality and change. Some require diversion, others purpose, others relationship. We build what we can from the pieces we find at our feet. For most, that's enough. For many, nothing seems amiss.
For the past few years, I've felt ostracized by that group. I didn't think it was enough, and the whole situation seemed terribly wrong, too cold and chaotic, like some dark joke formed by the rugged lifestyle of a Siberian surf from a Chekhov story. I wanted to force order on an unruly beast. I suppose that's natural, and some succeed, at least enough to eke out order for themselves and live a modest life.
As a spectator, I've lost that need. I can laugh at the joke from time to time. Sometimes life feels so ridiculous one must laugh. It's too absurd to make a good tragedy. Yet a quote from Murakami rings out from recent memory: "Listening to them, I felt strangely moved that I was living out my life on this odd planet of ours."
Seeing this world turn, filled with its endless pageants, people, races, and changes, I've felt both humbled and moved. Why is it all here? I cannot say. Why does it touch me so? I'm not sure of that either. Where will it all go?
I see the joy in photographs and feel the pain of broken hearts. I hear the rhythm of lonely footfalls calling from leaf-strewn pavement and see leaves blush and blow away in fall. Friends come together and drift apart. Love blooms and fades. Strange rituals occupy our days. We age. We die. Time passes.
All of it swirls together like some gigantic symphony. I have no words to explain this feeling of living, only my own vague impressions locked inside my head and heart.
We are mere notes dotting the endless measures of time. And I'm content with that.
This past week, continuing into this late night, I've felt like a spectator. I see the world unfold without my hands to pry the petals apart. It lives beyond me, without me. People walk across the globe, caught up in their own lives, sharing a sun and a ground, but little else, making their dreams, chasing their joys, building relationships with those around them. Even the most sedentary live like itinerants, whisked along the road of time.
I imagine us all like kids on a playground in winter. We huddle together with whatever we can, requiring strength to brace ourselves against the winds of reality and change. Some require diversion, others purpose, others relationship. We build what we can from the pieces we find at our feet. For most, that's enough. For many, nothing seems amiss.
For the past few years, I've felt ostracized by that group. I didn't think it was enough, and the whole situation seemed terribly wrong, too cold and chaotic, like some dark joke formed by the rugged lifestyle of a Siberian surf from a Chekhov story. I wanted to force order on an unruly beast. I suppose that's natural, and some succeed, at least enough to eke out order for themselves and live a modest life.
As a spectator, I've lost that need. I can laugh at the joke from time to time. Sometimes life feels so ridiculous one must laugh. It's too absurd to make a good tragedy. Yet a quote from Murakami rings out from recent memory: "Listening to them, I felt strangely moved that I was living out my life on this odd planet of ours."
Seeing this world turn, filled with its endless pageants, people, races, and changes, I've felt both humbled and moved. Why is it all here? I cannot say. Why does it touch me so? I'm not sure of that either. Where will it all go?
I see the joy in photographs and feel the pain of broken hearts. I hear the rhythm of lonely footfalls calling from leaf-strewn pavement and see leaves blush and blow away in fall. Friends come together and drift apart. Love blooms and fades. Strange rituals occupy our days. We age. We die. Time passes.
All of it swirls together like some gigantic symphony. I have no words to explain this feeling of living, only my own vague impressions locked inside my head and heart.
We are mere notes dotting the endless measures of time. And I'm content with that.