It is not so much that I do not recall what was going
through my mind at the time; it is what was going through my heart. Sometimes I
feel like it is so far but it is so easy to bring the feeling back again. The
heart just remembers the pain and all the joy at the same time. They work
together see, like veins and arteries flowing to your heart, each needing each
other, yet such opposites of each other.
The plethora of memories I have tried to keep alive, are
fading like ancient photographs; moments in time, a little evidence of events,
if only I could revisit the feeling. The presence is constantly adding stains
on the photographs and perhaps one day they will be completely faded with only
bits still recognizable.
I never want to forget, but I regret that I have to, as that
is what life dictates. We must not live in those memories lest we get stuck
there. It steals beauty from today. If today looks bland and colourless, we
should fill it with the hope of tomorrow. It might be a beautiful day and maybe
it may even rain, but tomorrow you may feel something more genuine than faded
emotions that are aroused by a simple song.
It is a day thing, every single day. I affirm to the heavens
to bring me an endless joy and I open myself to receiving the joy and joy I
have. It is in everything and nothing. It is in me, somewhere but I suppose I
would have to shave off some imaginary walls that I have created for my heart.
My heart was placed on a diet. It
wants to indulge entirely in feelings but they are futile and feeble. They are
like words written in pencil; soon they will fade, even though the writer
intended that they last forever. The heart is perhaps in itself, like a child
you see; it is pure, without contamination. Its intentions are always clear and
good. It needs protection which is why we have to filter and filter what we
allow it to indulge in lest we lose it. It is fragile but not futile.
So I recall a time when my heart together with fate led me
to the marvellous bliss of drifting far above everyday life. I floated all too
well on that bubble and it is a high I cannot find myself with my own efforts.
It is a gift, a blessing, which goes on being a blessing long after the source
has ceased to exist. So I do give myself permission to reopen that box, let the
emotions fill the room, then close it again. I set it back into my cupboard,
along with the many other things I have put to death.
