Musings on Ethereal Nudity.

I know for a fact that we all search for a place where our bones will not weigh as much and our souls will grow wings.

Occasionally, we've been finding that place in people, in books, in a song or even a landscape. Each place captures and holds a tiny part of our existence; a part forever to remain in their possession.

But since we lose parts of ourselves along the way, does that mean we become richer by experience or poorer by emptiness? Do we ever get those pieces back? Will we ever? And if not, how should we replace all that is missing?

Is this all a game? Is this all it is? Are we puppets or do we hold the strings? We usually feel as if we're either exhaustingly crawling or tempestuously jumping down from the sky. And we fall on the grounds with defeaning crying sounds.

Does that mean we cut those strings ourselves? Do we place us in this position of doom? Do we tear our lives apart and then wonder how did that happen? How conscious are we and if we are, how willing are we to face this consciousness?

To fall is to end. Endings are easier than beginnings. So is the tendency to wallow in woe and surrender. Beginnings require courage. How can a breathing carcass find the strength to walk? How can someone who is crushed by death be powerful enough to move the ruins that immobilise him to the ground?

Where does this strength reside? How can one reach it? Does it dwell within the very core of our entity? Or the core of another? And if chances gravitate towards the latter, where is this another? Is there any way to find this person? And if our paths do cross, will we know? Will we know we need to stop searching? How does anybody know anything for certain? Is everything a mere risk?

Sometimes life resembles a sorrowful piano solo. Maybe that is why we tend to swim the oceans of sadness instead of staying ashore. We need to feel grief so profoundly until it has inhabited our very bones. Until it has fallen in a poetically graceful unison with every molecule of our body.

How can one stop listening to the piano when it can so eloquently dress, express and shape all the undiscovered, unknown and estranged alleys of our heart. In a quite similar manner, one is weak in the face of rue. It is a battle of Clay versus Spirit. Our limbs melt but we savour in their liquids. We drink and we swallow and we burn. Our skin is ablaze. Our insides are ablaze. We become fire. Yet we never truly attempt to extinguish it.

Because to burn is to live. To bring ourselves to the point of breaking. To play with our brokeness. To laugh at our crying faces when we look in the mirror. Because to laugh at darkness is to become friends with it. And friendship leads to intimacy. Intimacy to vulnerability. Vulnerability to annihilation.

We need to become one with everything we desire to kill because only then we will learn the ways to vanquish it. To assassinate it for good. Closeness undresses even the shyest of units a human can hold within the soul. Nakedness is the answer of it all.