An ordinary human

I am really just one of them. One of the humans.

An ordinary human.

My experience that I am special is given by the plain reason that I have my own brain and I only have that. My own thoughts are unique to me. My experience is the only one, which is like this. The only one for me.

Most of the time I feel pressured by the weight of my existence. It pressures me to make it seen. Validated. By others.

Do I even exist if I am just in silence? If I am left with only myself?

Am I validated if no one validates me?

Do my thoughts fade away like the dreams in the morning?

I want myself to stay. To be. Their validation is the key. By others. By me.

I wish to remember my dreams. I wish to validate them.

But they come and go, and are ever changing. I have the freedom to think anything. Yet, I am limited to think what I am actually thinking.

I desire to step out. To reach further. To get out of myself. I can start to hate my own experience and all within that limits my existence.

And I share.

Share my thoughts with others. Put them into words. Shape them, shape me into a form, which can be looked at. And they can look at me. And I can show myself, and they can validate me and I exist to them.

But they validate the shape of me. The form I am put into and which I put myself in. And that is me. The story of myself which I tell, and the story they tell about me. The body I am inside and the mind I have and which creates anything and everything who I am. The voice they hear, the sight they see... I don't see and don't hear that. What I hear and see is different.

I want to be beautiful.

I want to be perfect.

All the shapes and forms fade away and fashion changes their preference. And I shape myself according to them. Fashions which I care for, from all my determined preconditions, my previous experience, my social embeddedness. But I cannot be anything and everything and I cannot ever become perfect. I am not water I am not the spirit I am a human.

I am not the moon I am not water I am not a flower. I am a human.

I have skin and hair and eyes. Legs and hands and heart. Cells and DNA. And a neural pathway networking through them all, connecting all my body to my brain, creating my mind my thoughts my experience.

My experience is beautiful to me.

My existence is perfect because it is the only thing I can ever be.

It is a necessity to become beautiful to myself. A necessity to become perfect.

But I am impossible to convince.

I can't convince myself of the reality of perfection inside me... I am trying and trying and that is all I am doing.

My life is all about trying to find the reasons and explanations and theories of everything, which include me and validate me and give a shape that would be accepted by me. A shape, that could satisfy me, and I could become enough to myself.

Or I can just choose to accept. And become enough. Without definition. Without worthiness. Just because. Perfectly and beautifully enough.

And then I become.

Then I become water and the moon but human.

And I am everywhere and here. Because I said that. I can dream then. My thoughts can fly. And the shapes can change and I am fine. I can float through the people and smile. And look in their eyes. And they can see me down there, and feel my heart. And can experience all my experiences and I experience theirs. And I see them and they see me and we exist. We understand.

We fly.

Fly like birds.

But like birds, we tire and need to fly down to the ground.

And on the ground it is dark. Hard and cold. After flying the ground is an excruciating pain.

Benches of a tree can be a bit less hurting than the ground.

And creating a nest can be a good reason to rest.

But the pain of the loss of the dream and the sky never leaves my heart.

Until I fly again.

Because I can.

And the pain just gives a tone to the melody I can sing while I fly.

***

I know. My words are floating without a concept. But they have no concept. No definition could define them. Because they talk about the pain of definition and the cycle of getting defined and undefined.

Of being born and die.

Like a piece of art.

When you look at it, it gets defined. It becomes your experience and you define it by your own limitation. And then it wears out. The experience is only a memory now and the definition of the memory and comparison and place is only that remains after it.

***

When you only experience you can only love.

But you cannot define.

When you only define you cannot love.

But without definition, love doesn't really appear. It doesn't become existent.

Everything that exists needs a shape.

Does it matter what's the shapeless reality behind the art?

Only the shape exists, right...?

The undefined soul calls out art.

Have there been any soul without any art?

Because I exist and I feel all the sensors in my body reaching to all my neural pathway, feeling all the pain there is to exist and it's undefined... I know there must be. My experience remains, and my art will be always called out and shape will be always given. But I am not defined by it all. I will be always more and also less.

Just an ordinary human.

2017.06.26. Budapest