Quiet Acceptance

Acceptance, he whispered the word, which in its many facets was so difficult to truly grasp, a term, a word, a simple statement of understanding that whatever happened, takes place, or may occur is good… Such a difficult one...

The air stood still resembling his seated position. The tremble of the rhythm echoing throughout his room originated from the little speaker stuck in the corner of his desk. Different desk, different song, same me, he pondered, but are we ever the same…? The end of the year was nearing and so was his deadline of self-negotiations. A date to remember and a state of mind one wishes to forget. A person. Who is that person, he thought looking at the seamless dance of his fingers across the keyboard, who am I…? Questions flowed endlessly weaving their path through the jungle of desire, self-loathing, anxiety, anticipation, ecstasy, and love. Love. The mark, which beamed on and off wherever the typing would commence and run to its completion, winked at him several beats of its expectation. There was plenty of expectation for the boy. They came from all angles, crawling out of the forgotten memories, bursting from within the half-filled cups of future’s streams, pinching at the topmost layers of his earthly skin. Little creepy crawlers, sweet children of the passion, which resides within. Creatures of the created – creator’s descendants. Little shits. What do you want from me, he would sometimes cry in despair, what do I want from myself…?

*

His body changed its shape, heaving and transforming like the ocean’s waves. Earth’s pulsating breath. Life’s cycle. He felt young when in awe; he felt old when in distress. He felt. It was the feeling that shifted. It was only that. The changeless stayed the same. Always. The expectation crushing its rigid structure against the silky waves of reality. Whatever this reality might be. He felt the pressure, which like a cover-topped pot slowly but surely overflows the insides of its vessel. He felt it burn the sides of his skin-covered avatar. He felt the calling of the dismissed opportunities and forbidden planes. He felt the sensations of the world, which stood on his shoulders only when he couldn’t find the way to alleviate this overbearing weight. We are our own saviours and crucifiers, he noted in despair, we are the wolves within, both of them and none at the same time… Whatever this time might be, he added. It was as if two, at least two, different worlds had their existence within his persona. One, the physical, was so complex it was almost impossible to describe. It comprised of all the events, places, people, expenses, invoices, articles, emails, discussions, phone calls, drinks, dishes, pets, photographs, sunsets, clothes, bricks, streets, vehicles, raindrops, clouds, after meal clean-ups, parties, drugs, sore throats, whispers, moans, figures on the dance floor, broken bones, documents, handshakes, smiles, clenched fists, warm cuddles, orgasms, inappropriate comments, useless information, overflowing kettles, burned fingers, ripped pieces of paper, broken glasses, painted pictures, scented candles, uneven mirrors, shaded windows, dirty cloths, excessive noises, silent walks, lost toys, received gifts, inhaled fumes, exhaled sighs, miniature souvenirs stuck on the house’s fridge, tickled fancies, made-up words, good and bad jokes, lonely tears, missed trains, stumbled dances, studied subjects, encountered books, acknowledged praises, dismissed critiques, heartfelt hugs, minor cuts, things… A world of overwhelm. A world of total immersion. A world.

*

The second one, slightly more subtle in its manifestation, although more persistent in its constant presence, was one of non-physical, the unseen, the unheard, the untouched. It was the realm of all, which happened out of sight, but never out of one’s mind. The world within. It comprised, to the very best knowledge of the boy, of stubborn thoughts, restless sensations, emerging emotions, repeated questions, spiteful reactions, silent cries, ecstatic arousals, skipped heart-beats, unspoken bonds, revered glimpses into the internal realm, calming notes, uncatalogued dreams, absurd incantations, loving expressions, fulfilling desires, speechless gazes, anxious seeds of ideas, guilt-ridden ambitions, courageous acts, grateful blessings, long-rehearsed prayers, disregarded opinions, false beliefs, dismissed truths, indescribable occurrences, granted miracles, and everything else that was not to be touched, tasted, scented, or seen physically. A world of juxtapositions. A world within. One’s world. Both worlds have an influence on one another, but one of them is more powerful and closer to the person’s truth than the other, the boy thought, and most likely one of them is not what we think it is, whereas the other, the dismissed one, is the most real of all…

*

His heartbeat accelerated, as it usually happened when great ideas and words were offered through his intuitional writing into the physical realm. He felt his spirit talking. Troubled with the war, which seemed to prevail between the two worlds observed and named, he thought of the way to put them together; of the way to put himself together. He needed support from himself. Now, more than ever before, he needed himself. Acceptance, he whispered the word, which in its many facets was so difficult to truly grasp, a term, a word, a simple statement of understanding that whatever happened, takes place, or may occur is good… Such a difficult one... He asked himself whether such word could, in fact, alleviate the amassed suffering, which trickled down the collar of his self-wounded head. He wondered whether there was anything to help with such a state. He believed it to be so, but he long accepted that beliefs do not necessarily agree with the truth. Belief, like hope, he thought, is there for us when we want it to be… He felt troubled with the many expectations that his ambitious ego placed on the plate of his mind over the past years. He felt worried about the future, saddened about the never-to-come-back past and hesitant about his next step, even the tiniest one, in the present. He felt discouraged in his courageous act of living the way he wished to live. He felt alone. One can have the most friends in the world and still feel the loneliest person there, he observed with a grimace scarring his beautiful, still young, face. Acceptance, he heard the word again, acceptance is what you need… Allowing his intuition to run its course freely, he sat there, observant of the surroundings, which his life created for him over the past decade. He was an adult struggling to feel mature. He was a boy struggling to feel childish. He was an artist struggling to be creative. He was. Feeling the sensation of unwavering courage trickling down his spine, he noticed the quiet, which writing provided him with. It was a silence like any other. A peaceful silence. Although his mind was filled with so many questions, anticipations, false expectations, and happy memories, he didn’t feel them. He had no time to experience them, as his intuitive, creative self, dictated the words to be put onto the digitalized paper of his work. He felt in accord with what was, what is, and what might be because he was just there. He just was. Simply, was. To be acceptant of the world, we must accept ourselves, he noted dutifully, it is no one’s job but mine to accept it first. Whatever may come, he sighed, the least I can do is keep typing…

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