Writing is done something best in the morning to me, It comes at a moment when you have slept and dreamt a life time of dreams that are floating around somewhere in your sub conscience bursting with new knowledge about who you are and where you belong. The sun shines bright and birds are feeding away at the pile of fresh bakers bread that has been laid out like a banquet of divine levels. We collect it fresh every morning from some friendly bakers. This morning I am hoping that the way they shock and fly away to come back and feast again, Is an analogy of life itself. That when something is divinely good and the something bigger and more powerful then the sun warms your heart. That the scares along the way shall only make the banquet taste even more sweet.
Surely there is room in life for a moment of terror to be shared with the relief that it was all pretend terror, That the meal had not changed into something old, moulded and rotten to the core. That the flight away is just a strengthening of the love for that original and only feast. The one laid down before us as a promise in life. That hidden away in some corner of our existence filled with anxiety and fear, that feeling we all feel that something pure and fresh exists along side the terror. Maybe its only the lucky few who ever find it, For somewhere else surely as their are birds feeding on the mountain of brown or white, seeded or crusted brown and crisp bread. Their is another bird or birds feeding from the dump, filled with its sharp glass, discarded needles and melting plastic festering away with a stench of death and decay itself. Yet if it searches even that pile of hatred and looks keen enough he will find some morsel of sustenance that will to him keep or her alive for another day, Maybe even to find that nirvana the next day, or maybe to struggle in the decay till it itself one day joins the pile to become part of the misery.
So if there are a lucky few and an unlucky many (which in my mind or at least experience is how nature seems to work) Its quite understandable that I notice the same birds feasting on the bread everyday. Their off-spring never going further then the roof tops and bushes of this neighbourhood, safe in the knowledge that the feast will arrive and it will always be fresh. It's not as understandable to me that the unlucky few seem to never really try to find the feast, as if the toiling and searching is a life confusing them, keeping them busy and never a thought to what is over the hill or roof tops. So when some of the unlucky ones finally find the feast, they are overwhelmed, They almost can not understand what it is they have been lucky enough or searched hard enough for to find. Mostly it is those birds, The ones who find the feast divine later in life, who have fed on the scarce and tasteless or more so the unsavoury taste of a life and love fought for. They shock the most, fly away the fastest and come back to the feast slowest, for they know what is out there lurking and waiting.
So they fly harder and faster then the lucky ones, it is only natural it is only fair that they frighten so much. Have they not already lived the life of fear and savagery not always of nature but also of the soul. The dark nights when the morning is not promised nor implied. The times loved ones stray and fall victim to what is always out there. Always waiting, coming in all shapes and sizes, emotions and flashes of thoughts.
Yet I argue this, the so called unlucky ones who find the banquet of divine and feast each time new after each time scared away. They taste it even sweeter and more mouth watering then unluckiest of the lucky birds. That its the scare in life, that can make our life taste that much more sweet and honest. Earned and fought for. That each fall, each quickened breath or fear of hurt, pain and lost love. Makes life, and the love in it. Taste better then the ambrosia of old. Then the freshest of fresh air and the purest drop of water when parched as a desert beaten into submission by the sun. So unlucky is for some only a matter of time, sweat energy and love lost and found. A life worth living, a meal worth devouring.
Conor Lodewijks
Surely there is room in life for a moment of terror to be shared with the relief that it was all pretend terror, That the meal had not changed into something old, moulded and rotten to the core. That the flight away is just a strengthening of the love for that original and only feast. The one laid down before us as a promise in life. That hidden away in some corner of our existence filled with anxiety and fear, that feeling we all feel that something pure and fresh exists along side the terror. Maybe its only the lucky few who ever find it, For somewhere else surely as their are birds feeding on the mountain of brown or white, seeded or crusted brown and crisp bread. Their is another bird or birds feeding from the dump, filled with its sharp glass, discarded needles and melting plastic festering away with a stench of death and decay itself. Yet if it searches even that pile of hatred and looks keen enough he will find some morsel of sustenance that will to him keep or her alive for another day, Maybe even to find that nirvana the next day, or maybe to struggle in the decay till it itself one day joins the pile to become part of the misery.
So if there are a lucky few and an unlucky many (which in my mind or at least experience is how nature seems to work) Its quite understandable that I notice the same birds feasting on the bread everyday. Their off-spring never going further then the roof tops and bushes of this neighbourhood, safe in the knowledge that the feast will arrive and it will always be fresh. It's not as understandable to me that the unlucky few seem to never really try to find the feast, as if the toiling and searching is a life confusing them, keeping them busy and never a thought to what is over the hill or roof tops. So when some of the unlucky ones finally find the feast, they are overwhelmed, They almost can not understand what it is they have been lucky enough or searched hard enough for to find. Mostly it is those birds, The ones who find the feast divine later in life, who have fed on the scarce and tasteless or more so the unsavoury taste of a life and love fought for. They shock the most, fly away the fastest and come back to the feast slowest, for they know what is out there lurking and waiting.
So they fly harder and faster then the lucky ones, it is only natural it is only fair that they frighten so much. Have they not already lived the life of fear and savagery not always of nature but also of the soul. The dark nights when the morning is not promised nor implied. The times loved ones stray and fall victim to what is always out there. Always waiting, coming in all shapes and sizes, emotions and flashes of thoughts.
Yet I argue this, the so called unlucky ones who find the banquet of divine and feast each time new after each time scared away. They taste it even sweeter and more mouth watering then unluckiest of the lucky birds. That its the scare in life, that can make our life taste that much more sweet and honest. Earned and fought for. That each fall, each quickened breath or fear of hurt, pain and lost love. Makes life, and the love in it. Taste better then the ambrosia of old. Then the freshest of fresh air and the purest drop of water when parched as a desert beaten into submission by the sun. So unlucky is for some only a matter of time, sweat energy and love lost and found. A life worth living, a meal worth devouring.
Conor Lodewijks
