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Can I put it here for your sunny smile?

It was good to be home. It was good to hear the wind across the green grass, to kiss its sweet kisses, as in the dream always. I bite my thumb, to feel the invigorating paint, like some reminder that I was awake and arrival.

By the river, under salley trees, I picked up concepts, dead/alive, in my mind, which was never lost but hidden somewhere. It seems not long ago, once I tired to reclaim my lost dates by simple reversing counting, swallowed the whole seeds of sunflower, dipped my whole body in the water. But I never got my lost back, or turned myself into a sunflower, or into the flexible transparent liquid. With so many ideas crowded in my little brain, my fear and wishes were paralyzed, as dead/alive somehow flowed softly out of my thinking.

However, that seems such a self-evident thing — that I, that we, are alive — and too often, I fear, we easily forget the importance of that simple fact. It is so easy to forget that you are truly alive, or at least, to appreciate that you are truly alive, that every sunrise is yours to view and every sunset is yours to enjoy. And all those hours in between, and all those hours after dusk, are yours to make of what you will.

It is easy to miss the possibility that every person who crosses your path can become an event and a memory, good or bad, to fill in the hours with experience instead of tedium, to break the monotony of the passing moments. Those wasted moments, those hours of sameness, of routine, are the enemy, I say, are little stretches of death within the moments of life, which sometimes, I feel, like swords kill the time and make me bleeding dying, and somehow inexplicable addiction.

It is good to be away home, as it pushes me to grow up, even though I kicked my suitcases, pretended to be sick many times for each living.

Survival independent makes me strong and thoughtful. There is an inescapable truth that I, we are all dying, every moment that passes of everyday. To be alive, under sunshine or under starlight, in weather fair or stormy, to dance every step, through gardens of bright flowers or through deep snows, I, we have to struggle up.

The young know this truth that so many of the old, or even middle-aged, have forgotten. Such is the source of the anger, the jealousy, that so many exhibit toward the young. So many times have I hared the common lament, “if only I could go back to that age, knowing what I now know!” those words amuse me profoundly, for in truth, the lament should be, “if I could reclaim the lust and the joy I knew then!”

That is the meaning of life, I have come at least to be understanding, and in that understanding, I have indeed found that lust and joy. A life of twenty years where that lust and joy, where that truth is understood might be more full than a life of centuries with head bowed and shoulders slumped.

It is good to construct a new home from a blank frame. Conflicts between ideas and realities, depression for fails and mistakes, exposure my deeply hidden conceit. Only God is almighty, loves are always easier to be accepted than to be given out.

It took me this long, through some bitter losses, to recognize the folly of that reasoning. It took me this long, to wake up to the life that is mine, to appreciate the beauty around me, to seek out and not shy away from the excitement that is there to be lived.

There remain worries and fears, of course. But I have accepted that this path is my own to choose, for the sake of all three – head, heart and body – have to combine together.