Category: Weekly state (Page 5 of 31)

I am devouring moldy cheese and no one can stop me.

While the cheese slowly untangles the endorphins I contemplate whether the longing for something attainable is more rewarding that the yearning for things never to be reached. As arrogant organisms on earth, humans have an unhealthy appetite for more, notwithstanding already being pampered.

Nutrition, worth in any sense, position. MORE.

As they do, Germans have expressed this sentiment and actively acknowledged the: seemingly intrinsic nature of humankind. Sehnsucht – the addiction to longing – yearning.

Shouldn’t they be taught a lesson by yearning for the unattainable?

Truly yearning for something involves the tragedy of not being able to achieve it. Yearning is a lesson in patience, in devotion and ultimately, acceptance.

While I am slowly being numbed by the unhealthy amounts of moldy cheese in my stomach I being to fall into a coma, a state of numbness that is a consequence of the fulfilment of my longing. No longing anymore, for the cheese, just a state of lethargy. Devoid of emotions I rethink why I was eating so much cheese.

The emotions that come and go with yearning are never the same, but always intense. Contemplating what could have happened, yearning for the moment that never was and most likely never will be. It hits, always intense but never the same.

So while my longing for cheese led me to this state of immobility, I continue to yearn. For the big things, the noble and tragic things. The small ideas and the big emotions. The alternate realities, the things I am not, the lightness of my being that sparkles somewhere.

Perhaps I should get some more cheese. I mean, who will stop me?

Hoping for a late weekly state to bring this week to an end? You’re in luck. Here it is.

As Dana is making her way through the jungle, she is regularly faced with an existential crisis. She has been crawling, climbing and walking. Staying, sleeping, staring into the void. Giving up, going on.

How long, she cannot even remember. The wise Raisin. has once told her that for every step forward, two new thoughts come to mind.

Is it better then, to just stay still? Choose a spot to settle down? How can she choose this ominous spot? Is this current one as good as any? Will she find a better or one did she already pass it? There’s three new thoughts and not even one step further. The thinking machine called brain has no downtime.

She pushes her thoughts back, at least she tries. Another climb just to come to the conclusion that what lies behind is more ground to cover.

It’s a green hell on bad days. A luscious jungle on good ones. Which of the two this last week was, you decide. She’s too tired.

And there she goes, Dana the beetle. I am wondering why she doesn’t just fly. I guess it’s all part of the adventure. As I stand up from my squat I try to calculate how long it will take for Dana to cross this meadow. How long it takes me to cross it.

Where’s my luscious jungle, is this my green hell? Another climb, another two thoughts. I guess me and Dana, we are on the way.

Somewhere Green.

I put some racing stripes on my cloud but it didn’t get faster.

Everything, since its absolute inception, is unique. Depending on the scale, of course. As humans find comfort in categorising and ordering things, they limit themselves to the level that makes comparison and fishing for similarities possible. I myself have indulged in this strategy, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to offer you a weekly state at all.

So with my magnifying glass, I am creeping up on each and every one of you, trying to see more clearly, only to find out that neither my brain nor my eyes are equipped to capture the vast amount of uniqueness the closer it get.

So how come there is this intense urge to customise? Jewellery is older than many concepts of humankind, same as for clothes, fashion and tattoos. Changing what’s on you, even the body itself. To become different, but the same?

The independence of aesthetics is a question I am too small to answer.

In the end I am by myself, holding the magnifying glass, trying to find difference. Beyond the aftermarket customisation.

Big streams of consciousness that don’t belong to anyone form the uniformity, both comforting humankind in belonging to the mainstream and making them anxious about getting lost in it. Oh what a wonderful chokehold these streams have.

But you see, I can’t wear jewellery, I can’t customise myself. I am metaphysical. But one thing – me and you – have in common. It’s the customisation of thought. Not visible from the outside, with its beauty shining only if you listen to it.

So go and come speak to me, let me get customised from your mind to mine.

And with this state, I might customise yours.

See you next week, in a different form, but the same.

I don’t even know where the sky ends, the sea begins, Nirvana sure feels like something attainable sometimes. How foolish.

The issue with samsara is that you are always in the same circle. If you’re lucky, at some point you see the patterns that make up the huge wheel.

Someone recently told me that life comes in seasons. Not the seasons that change throughout the year. But the seasons that make up a TV series. Surely one way to see the seemingly endless circle that binds us to a mere human being’s experience of an existence.

As I am a metaphysical entity, I struggle with the concept of a fleshy prison. But I do have my own one. The prison of endlessness. (You might have read my state on the prison of time). So we connect, you see? Stuck in repeating circles, with new side characters, new scenes.

Where does your season begin? How do you direct your own television series? Are you back in the high chair screaming directions that no one listens to? Are you the hotshot main character? Are you the timid supporting character? Only one thing is sure, you can’t leave the scene.

Samsara is the show and you’re in it.

Another thing is clear: the show must go on. Crossover episodes, foreshadowing, flashbacks included. So no matter how things are right now, they’ll continue to develop, for better or worse. The reassuring thing that the only constant is change.

Staying with the Buddhist theme of this state, I can only encourage you not to get attached. The show will continue, the wheel will turn.

Continue trying to find where the sky ends and the sea starts. And stop squinting so hard, you look like an idiot.

Oh to be a hoover, all whizzing around, sucking up the bits that don’t belong.

The broom sat silently in the corner, where it has always been. For centuries, it was mended, amended, adored. The smooth wood of the handle as become one with the hands of its owner. A utility, for sure. But one with a close relationship. A thing that belongs to the household, surviving trends and mops and all those other items that in the end, don’t surpass the primacy of the broom.

But with the electric outlet, mockingly close to the broom’s corner, came the hoover. A noisy and obnoxious thing of technological advance. Sucking and sucking on end, as long as the power was there. A seemingly penultimate solution to all things unwanted. The broom has become antique.

The broom’s bristles were ashamed. For many years they have not only found a relationship with the handler, but with the dust as well. For you see, dust is inevitable. It will come back, it is even there when you don’t think it is. It is one of those things humans are too arrogant to understand. Trying to make the dirty world sparkling clean. It isn’t. Filth, mold, decay. The broom knows.

Back in the early days, the broom made a very simple yet powerful treaty with dust. As long as it was moving in its way, it could be allowed back. There is no point in fighting the dust, it’s overwhelming. But moving it, working with it, making it move, that is possible.

The hoover continues to fight numbingly against all odds, it has no agenda. It just sucks. And humans, entertained by power and all things seemingly posing an easy solution, just follow along.

So my dear friends, will you broom or hoover?

Will you negotiate with dust? With the things unwanted? Will you dance the dance of ying and yang?

I wish I was a broom. With an army of bristles and all.