This is about my flying thoughts and a little bit of dread. Maybe you can fly with me, dread-filled or otherwise.
As physical beings, we live busy lives. Well mostly anyway. We are or not gainfully employed, and there is something to do. There are acts we participate in, driven by nature and what seems sensible. We think. We brush, do stuff, play games, go to the toilet, eat, buy groceries, walk, make love, exercise, talk, and sleep. We think. We plot, get stressed, conceive and dispel ideas, mull acts of goodness and evil… We indulge in fights, have insights, laze, celebrate, chat, fight again, help others and even try to meditate. External stimuli set us off. That guy with orange hair, chanting of Om, the aroma of spices, death of a neighbour, the beautiful girl with the funny accent, sound of raindrops, pictures by Dorothea Lange, parrot screeching, colours of early dawn… The goodies or gunk are endless. Time passes, we exist. No. Is it the other way around?
I live. I am happy. Mostly.
When I depart into the world of souls, I wonder what I will do? Living a formless existence, without words, with no books to read, no one to bit*h about or with, no senses or body to feed, no mind to plot funny, enigmatic new beginnings or funnier story endings, what might happen of my zest of being occupied, and a meaningful existence? Will I speak to another departed, about my unfinished journey? Will wisdom dawn or get manifested for my quest to end sooner, on a high? What about my craving for basundi-undhiyoo and jalebi-faafda? Will I miss eating so much that I will throw a tantrum, to return back to the fold? Will the good lord kindly give in? Will I have other dialogs with the good one? About meaning and purpose, about existence? Will riddles and confounding mysteries be unraveled somewhat? Will love get a new meaning?
I live. I am happy. Mostly?
The biggest unresolved fear is whether I will even be an ‘I’ in the world of souls.
The conversations rages on. The flight is but tenuous.