The Fly

After writing ‘chills’, I decide to make myself an omelette and let the story go. I had only eaten an apple and some almonds up until that point. Some grounding would be good. Eggs do that to me. Nature does it to me too. Attaching to a story causes pain. It’s not helping anyone to go and sit in misery with them. Even though misery really likes company. Misery is needy, that’s why. Thank God I’ve come home into my own.

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Thoughts go back to when I first started to write. I read a piece of my writings out loud to one of my good friends whom, btw, I haven’t seen in a while now. While I was in the middle of reading it, she exclaimed:”Omg, I get the goosebumps! I totally see you reading this aloud on Oprah!” I thought it was funny as it was very synchronous for me to hear her say that. Yet writing to be on Oprah has never been my motivation. Not in the least. Writing saved my life! It’s how I got back in touch with myself and got to depend totally and solely on me! (time: 2:22 pm)

The piece I read to my friend Ali had something to do with a fly that had flown into my bowl of hot cereal that morning and how it turned out (word count: 222) to become an inspiration for a story on trying to help others and why often times that’s not the best thing to do as they will never get to learn their own true strength. The fly was struggling to get out of my cereal and for a minute I considered helping the fly out of my hot cereal but then the following occurred to me: ” The fly had flown itself into the cereal, if I’m gonna help him get out of it, how is the fly ever gonna get to know his own real strength? If the fly is gonna make it, he can thrive on that for the rest of his life. If I were to help the fly, he will never know his own unique power. If the fly dies; well, as sad as it is; he flew himself into the cereal, he chose it.”

And while writing the above I can’t help but think: “The fly is me!” I got myself into this writing mess, living in a cellar and trying to write my way out of it. 

The funny thing with stories is; we love them so much because we can relate. Or we can’t relate at all. Or we think those stories are stupid. We connect to stories. Because maybe that story is you. But when a story over-takes you, you attach too much to it and are unable to let it go; a story can eat you alive. Never forget that stories just are. Life is just a ‘story’. Sometimes it’s a great ride, other times it’s not. That’s when you know you’re still attached. The moment you no longer need perception, but can see things the way they are; you no longer identify with it. And that’s when it becomes easy to let it go. Just release it. Allow it to go. 

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(time: 2:34) Written stories are like art. Number three’s painting “Move towards the light”, touched me. Art is the artist turned in-side out. (word count: 555) When we look at art, read certain stories, we are touched by the light of the person who created it. That is how we move towards the light, we lit each others lights. If one’s light is not lit-up or just barely flickering; all that person needs is to let it be or have a very well lit person be with him so his own light is touched by that of the enlightened person. No words needed.

I can’t help but wonder why I noticed this enormous big pink eraser on the dinner table next to my plate with eggs. You know what it said on the eraser? A BIG mistake. I wonder what it relates to?