Life is a rock, life is an ocean, life is a wave, a hope, a dream, a trickling water-flow gently gracing the face of a mountain's meaningfulness. Life is a gift, that some wish to return unopened. I am now staring the package of life square on, and for me it is wrapped tightly in treacherously-ticking brazen bombs of emotion, that my destiny defers from detonation. I have been navigating nervously through a mine field of pain, re-experienced in the now, but framed by the past. Can I hang on long enough so that I may free myself from it at last?
Life is illusive, a stray animal, bobbing and weaving its way through the forests of eternity, and the jungles of destiny. The question that it seems to ask itself is, "Why am I here, what is my purpose?" in a mysterious way defines for me what the essence of life is all about. I feel now that perhaps in the absence of any prominent reason to live, I need to live to answer the question of life. The very beckoning call of what is to be, why the fall, and how my life is to unfold binds me to it all.
Life is a tree, with roots and branches and leaves and bark, whether in the sunlight or the shadows of the dark. I must have been in the shade blinded to other choices that it would better serve me to have made. My body is my current geography, the borders of which are in enemy territory. This is my country, and I need to take it back, I can succeed, unless it is the basic strength that I lack. Clinging to a singular sense of stoicism as I continue to chase life deep inside of myself around in circles for the time being, but once in awhile out of the shadows it is light that I am seeing.
When one spends a lot of time in the dark, the filtering in of any light seems to threaten the life's sight, the mind's eye, challenged to work, to grow, to risk and to seek as opposed to just breathing and barely getting by. The rock and the hard place, between life and death, reeling, spinning sensations of subserviant sequestration serving to dim the dawning of each new day. Feeling invested in death, needing and wanting to invest in life despite the torment, the truculant tortured tongue tied trivalities of all of the incumbant inner strife.
What is life? Where is life lived? How is one to define the quality of life? Is there a fat life and a thin life? Is there an inner life and an outer life? Why is it that life is only a state of possibility until it is undertaken, realized, engaged in, in terms of the action that is necessary to live it, and not just be in a state within it? What is the significance of the word, life, or the word live? Live spelled backwards is evil, and from this I realize that the purpose of life, is not to exist, is not merely to live it, but to get down to the heart of it and through the discovery of each of our individual purposes to define life in a single-soulful way that can be translated into the greater good as it joins with all other lives being lived to fill out the ocean of life as each cleansing tear drop heals the spirited sea of self.
© 1996 A.J. Mahari
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