Life is seeing a woman in a white dress, that touches the dirty pavement, stumble drunkenly down the road at midnight. Life is finding solace in the quiet moments, in the peaceful parts, the tops of unused industrial stacks or at the end of the garden, where an old tree stands. Wondering to itself, observing its now bare arms, the tree thinks, where are the children that used to climb and play in my roots? Solidly, the industrial stack harbours a family of storks, and when the children open their eyes for the first time, they’ll know the sky is so blue, and it is theirs.
Life is watching a couple roll around on the floor, they’re not drunk, but intoxicated. The floor is wet, but they don’t mind, people are watching, but they don’t mind. They could be wrestling, but I think they are in love. Life is love. Love of all things. Love is a memory of things that you can’t capture, things that are transient and disappear quickly. Life is making sure that these memories stay intact for as long as people. Life is looking back on these memories, both good and bad, and reassuring yourself, by pinching your skin, laughing loudly or grabbing a friend, that you’re still here: awake, alive.
Life is watching the grey clouds cover the blue sky. Life is knowing that you’ll see the blue sky again. Life is the vivid kaleidoscope of all human history condensed into your single body, your vibrant brain and its endlessly splattered canvas of consciousness are the emblem of society, of history, of all life. The Victorians found a Roman civilian of Britain in a peat marsh. His face was still intact, his skin still tanned, his clothes were colourful and beautiful. More importantly, he looked like you, he looked like me. He was important. You are important, an individual part of a great machine, its metallic and barbaric arms stretching backwards and forwards across misunderstood time. Life is the Roman man asleep in the peat. Life is you.
A few inspirations for this one today.
First of all is of course the Daily Prompt for giving me the right word to use over and over again, and for always seeming to fit what I wanted to say anyway.
Next is The Romantic Quill, who made me realise that I should be appreciating life, and not being so awfully bleak all the time.
And finally Cathy, who’s picture of the nesting storks on an industrial stack got this whole ball rolling, and which has inspired not only this little post, but a longer story, too.