“It’s offending to make a soul feel something”

I wonder why I feel this way and soon wipe off that bothering scratch in my mind.

Where does such a thought even come from? I don’t allow myself to call it weird. I know it’s not called weird. No that’s not what it is. It is just plain “thought”

People have thoughts. Our minds are so restless to allow some time to sort out the thoughts. We like coming up with new ones but never give a shit about sorting them out.

They are so irresponsible, I snicker.

Such cowards, I snicker.

A slight sign of sorting out paints across my mind and I say, “What is a coward anyway?”
 
The window helps. The sky I look through its white painted and dust dressed grills help. The clouds watching me and the mountains, being alive with a meaning to their existence even without doing much work, the heavy trees growing on them… all of these help me.

They help me to come up with “weirder” thoughts. No just thoughts.

Necessary ones. Not like what lesson should I learn next or about when I should clean my room.

Important ones like, what has that cloud seen so far? Is it worth travelling around an earth that isn’t about nature anymore but only crippling destruction of it?

But the funny part is, it isn’t destruction actually.

It’s like when we have a thing so old and malfunctioning but still insist to go on so we don’t mind any level of damage it takes. Only if it can perish so we can make or buy a new one.

Nature can make a new species. It’s already on the job.

I sometimes speak like nature’s a person. Such indolence of a human being. Everything has to be personified. Things with a human touch make sense to us.

We plunge our mark into everything and call it some name and act like we know it and own it.

Pathetic, I snicker again.
 
 

She said it. Well many say it.

How marvelous it is to make a soul feel something…

How actually marvelous is it? Why is it marvelous? Is the innate character of a soul marveling?

Then am I marveling as I am? Are you? To yourself? To others? Does it matter?

And again, my mind grazes against the question of what marvel even meant but then looks down a hole of existential doubt.

I pull it back to deal with marveling of the self. There are lots of such holes I dig up in my mind and leave uncovered so my wandering mind goes in circles and in mazes through and around it. Sometimes it slips or should I say deliberately slips. The free fall is addictive.

We call it fantasy. The free fall of minds.

Yeah so the clouds are marveling. They are air and water. They manage to be a marvel in this world and in this age with just that.

My mind laughs insanely into the pits it crosses. It humors itself fairly well.

And all of the pits echo it back. It is a sign of a faintly darker serpentine thread in the depths.
It visible but it isn’t time yet, to get anywhere near it, the answer. Or so I say and wander again.

How did we manage to come up with a criteria for marveling when things are that way just as them?

Such lies we make up and lay on peacefully and wake up aching all over.
 
My mind curses the clothes it wears. Beautiful, expensive, branded, useful and yeah, marvelous indeed.

It curses at the way it is. Just heavy and ugly in its eyes. Almost everything is ugly in its eyes.

And it is in awe at that ugliness. It’s marveled at the way it is.

Then it snickers again.

The ugly clothes, it didn’t dare remove them.
Not because those are its own. They aren’t. It knows it doesn’t own it. And sometimes doesn’t wanna own it.

Those clothes are hand me downs from other minds it had evolved from. There’s no sentiment in holding onto it. Just enough shame to not remove it.

And a dangerous curiosity and fear too.

What lies under it? What kind of body awaits the revelation? Or did emptiness fill it underneath? Was it supposed to be filled with something? Give it shape and name and own it?

The answer is to shrug it off until someone rips it off forcefully.
 
There are few more pits it crosses before choosing one and jumping into it to sleep in.

Some of the pits for the day will be forgotten and some ignored.

Is it sad? Yeah, losses are sad. Mistakes are sad. Walking away and forgetting is sad.

And being sad is offending.

To have something seed a feeling with a name and criteria and a whole damn history in our souls, it’s offending.

The possible truth that emotions can only be sown and not created is offending as well.

The other possible truth that, we have got all the spade, mud and water to decide its identity is madness.

It’s like the madness of a witch with the most powerful spells and an illogical plan that she’ll change and own the world.

The snickering continues down the pits.

No the pits aren’t dark neither are they bright. They just are whatever they are. They are the way the falling mind sees it.