To be or not to be.
What sort of question is that?
Spend a day just walking around and noticing-
Colors—all of them. Bright, dull. Do they clash, or match? Complement one another, or compliment one another, do they flirt and make friends or do they circle around in suspicious avoidance or open aggression? And notice the fabrics of the clothing around you; pretend you know how they feel, make up stories as to their origin.
Sounds—the train? The people on it? Even the lack of noise is worthy of your attention. A woman sitting near the handicapped seats, breathing heavily because of her weight and the pressure of having to control her lungs and not seem like she’s wheezing; the guy standing by the doors, leaning next to the “Please do not lean against the door” sign, some sort of rap blasting through his Beats and his eyes half-closed in enjoyment or in attempt to shut out the people around him. Sometimes he surprises you and you hear Mozart. The girl writing in her notebook, desperately trying to record the thoughts that spring into her mind at the thought of watching everyone, but trying not to seem like she’s observing these people like they are subjects on display, the sound of her pencil sprinting across the pages can be heard by the sensitive ear and a curious eye.
The importance of breathwork, taking in varieties of air and smog and cigarettes and the fast food oils that you promised yourself you’d quit indulging in. The seemingly small effect on the way you hold yourself after you stop to smell a flower, taking in its fragrance and a warmth and happiness fills your soul. If it doesn’t, go practice communication with flowers – it’s worth it, trust me, and you will feel this deep rooted contentment and satisfaction at knowing that they will always be there, and always face the world with a calm resolution to revive after the winter, to spit back in the world’s face and say, “Check me out, bitches, I’m back and I’m flowering, and guess what? I’m gonna do it again next year.” But they’ll do it classily.
Speak. Of everything. But the every things that are important to you, no matter how insignificant they may seem to others. But also don’t. Listen when others give to you of their words. No matter how frivolous the words. Even their need to fill the silence speaks volumes towards their thoughts and self-awareness.
Learn. Just by watching and listening and hearing and asking and responding and living. Living.
Because if you are trudging through life? Going through your days as if the sky will remain eternally gray and pressing upon your shoulders, as if you won’t ever be wanted again once you separate from temporary love, as if the fact that you’re still living with your parents because the job market has gone sour is the most mortifying thing you could ever admit to a stranger. As if your life is a dull, dreary, colorless and muted tunnel to which there is no foreseeable end or purpose. If you are living this way – no, living isn’t the right word. That’s not living. That’s existing. Simply being alive doesn’t make you alive.
As though every breath is an expression of your deep internal joy and you are gracing the world with the beautiful uniqueness that is your soul. As though your smile can be your sustenance, and the people that surround you your nourishment, and the sky — whether grey or blue or white or painted the bright heartbreaking vibrancy of sunset or soothing you with the pastels of sunrise – the sky is the reason you get up in the morning. Flowers are the reason you get up and face the mundane. Your mother is the reason you open your eyes in the morning, because you had an epiphany that through her sometimes nagging is the deepest love that you can’t even fathom; that your father may be an aggressive and stubborn man who says the wrong things every time, but he’s scared shitless that you’re going to end up an emotional wreck like he did – show them how you LIVE. Show them how ALIVE you are. Do you need anything else?
So to be or not to be?
How is that even a question?