You climb…you climb to reach the peak. You sweat, cold, instant, dripping, like crystal, translucent blood. Then you let go.
I find it amusing how people easily let go of things, of life. By dying, I mean literally and metaphorically. Some die slowly, some instantly. As if nipped by a force so strong in a fraction of time. Some let go forever, others come back. Allowing the air to brush through and pierce their souls. So easy. So hasty. Reaching lucidity. Gently.
Who would not be obsessed with death? I know I am. The thought of being sucked in by a mighty force that's going to bring you to a so-called nirvana is astonishing. The thought of being able to let go of the abnormality of troubles and risks in your life is simply alleviating. The thought of running away. At last.
When you breathe, do you think of life? Do you think of fate? Do you think of mankind? Do you think of the gods governing our lives? No. Since breathing is involuntary, we take it for granted. Since oxygen is free for our heart and mind to feed on, we take it for granted. Yet are we entitled to take life's bounty forever? Everytime we make a move, everytime we ask and answer, we fail to see the world's quintessence. We fail to appreciate the convenience because it is there. We fail even though it's right there in front of our eyes, everyday, everywhere. The food, house, money, toys, music, nature…the people. They are all there. Ready to salve us from delusion. Yet we just take and take. We never thank, if not never, rarely. This is the true crisis of self, the egoism, the insensitivity of the mind. We always fail to think.
As the philosopher, from Jostein Gaarder's Sophie's World, said, we are like little fleas in a rabbit that was pulled from a hat by a magician. How and who the magician was, we do not know and we cannot assume. When we are born we hold on the rabbit's fine hairs strongly and we try to climb the top, risking our lives, yet as we grow older, we learn to seek comfort in the fur and so we stay, we become idle and we tuck in deeper and deeper into the rabbit's fur, because of the convenience, we assume to be contented with what is there. But some still go on with the climb, neglecting steepness and danger in order for their eyes to see everything, to find out.
Death is an escape route. Death is rutted, where we land in the end. Death is how life turns its back on us. Death is perfection. Death is stealing. Death is giving way. Death is giving away. Death is hurting. And death is letting go.
The thought is mind-bogglingly fantastic and dreadful at the same time, but it will stay locked up in my dreams for now. My session with life is longer, I still want to be able to breathe the air Einstein and Goethe gulped and exhaled. I want a longer time to express gratitude.