There is a melancholy (which is rare for me) that hangs on me like smoke
this rainy, cool night, deep in the valley, the river is intense, and seems
highly motivated to get to the bottom of all things, and each drop makes
the same sound as it smashes against the rocks in a crashing, relentless
whisper, like foam, like applause slightly distant. Its sound disappears
until I slow enough down. But then it’s hard to tell it apart from the sound
in my head which never stops, and which also I forget about until I slow
down to zero and it reappears just like the river. And why should I be
sad… just because it’s dark and rainy out? I know, but I don’t want to say.
It might sound too pitiful and I don’t want your pity, only empathy.
The mathematical logic that seems imprinted in us all when it comes to
firebuilding, so amazes me, it is so pure and true. The relations between
the wood and the air, how we know exactly how to place the logs, like
some sort of instinct, the carefree flames, the intensely glowing embers,
keeping me warm. The solar light casting a slightly eerie moonlight like
light on the pale pine floor, the eager patter of the rain on my roof. So
much richness all to myself. Not far away, others are making music, but I
am tired and comfortable here, alone.
Simply accept, don’t crave. This is not meant as wisdom, only a message
to myself, assuming that I might have any control over craving. Craving is
more than just an idea or a concept. It’s more like a nagging itch, just
something that is there, but not by my will. Like a bad habit, that is too
overwhelming to ever consider stopping.
To live life craving nothing, just to accept what one has, seems impossible
to me. One is always trying to make things better, it seems. I guess it’s
possible to reach a point, where you no longer think like that, and instead
are more concentrated on enjoying every second as deeply as possible,
regardless of what seems to be happening. However, for me, that seems
impossible. I am always too affected by whatever seems to be happening.
The craving is subliminal. I am not craving, it is craving, or craving just is,
like hunger is. My craving is tucked away, quietly somewhere. It cannot
dominate, I won’t allow it. It is only a part of myself and it’s not
necessarily the highest part. This melancholy is related to this. But it’s like
the raindrops on my window, I can wipe them all away with a towel.