Thursday Sept 8 2022
5:10PM
I come to these pages today empty minded; well it is far from empty, more so lacking of subject. I had some free time before I took the long and treacherous trek to work, and spontaneously decided to stop at this park. The thought that comes to mind is the writings of Murakami. I've started another one of his novels, and I can't help but be so fascinated by his work. It touches me ever so gently through all the veils of judgement, past the overthinking, and reaches the part of me that only the feeling of poetry can reach. I hope that one day I too can write as beautifully. It requires a level of submersion, not into the craft per say, but into the inner desires that we so often keep quite. Like the feeling of rain hitting the wooden window sill of a tiny home in the mountains. Or the freedom from a drive to an endless destination, with only the drive itself in mind. Those are the fantasies that these great novels are built upon. Submersion into your craft is very enticing, but to what end? Where is the life that we build these stories upon? I've come to realize now (whether it's too late or too early is irrelevant), that life needs to be lived. The opportunities only present themselves often enough as you seek to claim it. The desires to live in beauty, even to live in sadness, needs to be embarked upon. To let the rumblings of existence deter you from such an endeavour is a waste. Nothing should hinder you from this. Nothing should take away the fruits of life, there is too much life for fear to take over. I'm thankful for this park, for the nature that sprouted whether by choice or intent that allowed me to pause for a moment, and get a glimpse of beauty in this mundane reality.
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