Container

An ever-present alarm that no-one in a human experience can be truly happy, that is the gift of this world's stories. There is no strong dialogue which says any different is actually achievable: only struggle, hard labour, striving for a feeling of being successful, finding ways to ignore the terrors and pains, bittersweet acceptance of yearning over loss, heady body sensations created as distractions and substitutes for true restfulness.

This world is not designed to let a being rest.

The life experience always moves, quickly, without consideration for much, and it does not exactly 'care' if you keep up or not.

It could be said that I have a depressed outlook. It could also be said that I have a different lens through which I am viewing the world - a lens which sees details of data relationship that others appear still able to choose to not see.

Anxiety, depression, panic, oppression, sadness. Names for a range of feeling states which do not all have the same mechanisms giving rise to their presence within and around a human psyche. I do not think that my 'glass is half full', I think that the glass has no bottom and holds no water. I am constantly filling it, and it is constantly pouring out.

I am making for myself a new container, one which holds my flow so that I can use it to create things for myself. I will be a container, not a funnel filling the world which is become a unfillable void.

Clouds of white cabbage moths startling at the approach of my fingertips.

What I will do with that substance of mine once this container is built and functional, I do not yet see. Perhaps it will just be rest which I create. An ocean meadow of rest.

True rest, rather than a state of peace brought through ignoring surroundings.

The place where wind breathes through pine needles, and the horizon spreads uninterrupted.