, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Does one’s moodiness know no bounds?

How can a person feel a certain way one day and completely indifferent the next?

Is it because the indifference was there from the start? The only thing that changed was that the veil of niceties and goodness were there one day and stripped away the next. Stripped away, not necessarily by an opposing force, but simply due to exhaustion of the mind, tiredness of the spirit, heaviness of the heart?

A heaviness of the heart that though one may try to pull one’s mind away using a means of distraction, any distraction, the weight comes right back down like an anvil on the poor little Wile E. Coyote? It’s like a see-saw.

God, do I hate see-saws. You keep going up and down and never seem to reach anywhere. The only balance you ever achieve is the one you force and it takes your strength away. And then all you’re left with is a feeling of powerlessness.

I always preferred the swings at a park. Whether as a kid, or even now, there comes a glint in my eye as I feel the happiness wash over me and I feel the power I have over own fate. My own fate right there in that swing. I can go as high as I like and the wind may rush past me but it has no power over me. I control how it makes me feel. I am the ruler of my own sensations. In that swing, I feel every atom in my being as it sways to the harmony of the wind and it is under my command.

I am completely free in that very moment.

So then is it like a swing? Flowing through a person like a pendulum. At one height I am my own commander. And at the other, I am not much than a slave to its set course.

It’s so strange how one day a heart could feel so light that it be willing to give goodness, knowing no bounds; and the next day, a heaviness befall it. Such that it know nothing but that damn anvil. And that damn pain.

Goodness of the heart then is a creature that, unlike that pendulum, does not flow freely. It is a slave to the condition the heart is made to suffer. A condition the heart suffers alone and under many commanders.

Time is a slow healer. So slow that sometimes, the wound never completely heals. It’s just a scab. Ready to be scratched at and torn off only to reveal more bright red.

Bright red silk that simply flows. And flows on through.

[youtube http://youtu.be/17ozSeGw-fY]