Towels are towels not only because we call them such, but also because we make them such.
“How could you think the rain would fall knowingly? It does what it does. It’s a natural process. There’s no spite involved. Stop criticising.”
“You say this of me, but you don’t understand. I want to know how things happen, that’s all. But I know I’ve picked up these critical patterns. It seems to be taught as the way to be strong. I must be judging, always thinking of what’s wrong and right, what should and shouldn’t be. But I wasn’t naturally like this, whatever that means… It came about as an attempt to merge into my surroundings.”
“This self-absorption… we were talking about the rain. Why do you think it would want to harm us? How could you think so badly of it?”
“How could I know what’s in the mind of the rain? It was just a suggestion, or a thought.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I suppose a suggestion could be about you, trying to make you think differently perhaps, while a thought could simply be me expressing my mind with no motive at all of it influencing you. But what I said wasn’t a judgement on the rain.”
“Okay. I see. I just feel one’s interpretations of others’ actions could make all the difference. You know, the world is in ruins. Do you think harm would come about nearly as often if we thought each other’s motives benevolent, or at least as not cruel?”
“I want to be like the rain, if it doesn’t fall knowingly. These endless reactions, all with some kind of choice and of blame, they’re exhausting. I don’t want to think.”
“But is thinking not necessary? We must understand.”
“Does the rain understand?
“Does the rain try to change things? The rain, it just is.”
“Maybe that is the answer.”
“Perhaps a part of the answer.”
A try at writing a dialogue with what came into my head. Nice to do.
This week’s photo prompt: Typewriter
I write what people tell me, whether that comes from their hearts, souls, minds, or a god above. I don’t know why or what point I’m making.
She’s been here before, in this chamber of possibility, forever passing the signs of freedom. What seems like it should be allowed is suppressed in caverns of mind.
Poetry, through of me. Very. Novel in that it’s new. Everything will be novel at some point to someone. What I read that I wrote years ago now seems young and naïve to me. “Avoid quotes because someone will always have said it better.” Everyone should have the freedom to express their minds through their words, if they like.
I don’t know what I’m exploring. If I go through here, will I be exploring, even though I know what’s there? Am I exploring when treading the same paths? Possible corners and crevices make me want to, but I don’t know whether they exist anymore. So many times I’ve been over them. Searching for what? An answer. I saw a glimmer of an answer the first time I went. Brightness. The brightness gradually turned to dimness, but I can see the shadow of that brightness. I remember how it felt.
Is that it? I was on the periphery of a discovery, an exalting feeling, a connection to the sublime.