Reflections: Water and suds
An improvised pebble thrown over a lake. Hit, hit, sink.
Does it mean something if you hang your laundry a certain way? 1 From big to small, small to big. Smallest in the middle, big ones at the end, on their sides. I think it speaks about something much more complicated, something profoundly human, sentient— these days, brushed off under the bastardized term that OCD has become.
Truth is, we see ourselves in every little thing around us and treat them accordingly (Them, there is no 'it' in this page). Take this as a horoscope if you will, one of those ‘I’ll read your soul based on the picture you choose’ but I am merely telling you what you could already infer (or could you? Would you have taken the time?)
Small to big: Best for last. You want to take it all up, big and eye-catching. A progression you’re unable to truly feel, so you flesh it out all over your life, forming these patterns, hoping you can finally see them inside— I, too, am big and formidable— but what we put out we pull from within. Don’t let yourself forget that.
Big to small: Overwhelmed, are you not? So heavy. Your arms are tired when it’s their turn. A need to go back to simpler times, to hibernate. Gather your things and curl up; everything else can wait. Rest is fundamental to transformation, don’t let the hectic capitalistic bustle tell you otherwise.
Smallest in the middle: You crave love, and you think they do too, that’s why you love so much— give endlessly and live vicariously, easy. You are merciful already, better than they were, in case that question was still resounding as if in an echo chamber, don’t let it hammer away.
I now know an uncomfortable bit more about myself, and for the time being, that is enough. I hoist my stuff under an arm and continue. I don’t look back at what was left behind, what I missed. Complaining is pointless; we are not heard.
