Do I remember how to write? Do the stories, anyone's stories matter? Will reading this change a life? Forever? Until the next click through?
Letting go, deepening surrender, yeah fine whatever. Not taking a picture of a moment because I choose not to leave the moment to be the one step outside of it required to take the picture. Not crafting an experience so as to have it be a more exciting, more profound story to write. Not writing a story in order to reorganize it in my brain body heart in a more comfortable arrangement.
And yet the opting out of using the experience of living as fodder for willful creation has had an opposite effect. The living is much more passive. More tv watched. More books read. More surfing the net, relaxing into rabbit holes and weird fringe trails and banal pop culture pot holes. Even the more bourgeois stuff of day to day falls away - dishes hang out in the sink, laundry doesn't get put away, vacuuming is a special occasion - replaced by nothing but a drift through 2012, then 2013, now 2014. And the supposed highlights - birthdays, holidays, vacations - all become no different from any other moment. All just things that occur, but not really, as the sun and moon chase each other, but not really, across the sky.
If I could again have the experience of living be spiritually magical and full of Yes and heart achingly meaningful, would I choose it? I know that I wouldn't. I understand that I can't. Bar a head trauma, the known can't be unknown. Not really. Lots of people pretending. I get that. The why of it. Because the truth ain't fancy or pretty or fun.
Why bother, then? Maybe because on some level, the current understanding of truth doesn't add up. The truth is seen, but the interpretation of what to do with it, how to abide in it, is perceived as off somehow. There is no indication of what to do next on any pervasive scale in this living and so the living goes on based on smaller nudges - Bikram yoga many times a week, unraveling out of workplace dramatics, turning towards a deeper submersion into the earth plant sun water microbe etc etc layer.
When you no longer seek to fix the story, the brokenness appears to take over. Maybe for a while. Maybe for good. Maybe there's something underneath the shards. Maybe not. Maybe there are no shards.
How weird to know that I know more than I have in my entire life, and that the title for that knowing is I Don't Know. And that as I watch, listen, witness the folks who radiate with the experience of their living that they know something, that one thing they've absolutely figured out, how clear it is that they are more lost than ever.
Maybe it's cowardice. Maybe it's truly, finally nutting up after a lifetime of la-la-la. I know that it doesn't matter. I know that I don't know.
And that Baby Wallace is handsome.