John, Tim and Everyone Else

"We are but dream figures inside someone else's dream."

We pass by hundreds of people every day. Hundreds of people pass us by every day. People that we don't know, people that don't exist. Some make an abrupt gesture or give us a strange look, marking their now many times stillborn existence. We don't know them, yet they have made an impression on us, creating thoughts inside our heads. That's the door. Catching our attention is how they knock and open it before you ask "who is this?".

If you didn't know yet, you do it too. You change people's lives, wanting it or not. But what if you stopped that person that keep glancing at you with the corner of the eye, look straight into them and say "Hello. Who are you?". That question means a lot. It shows a lot. It lets you know straight away what that person stands for, which beliefs he/she has.

Let me tell you a short story that never really happened.

Once upon a normal day, a normal guy got out of bed. Just like every morning, he ate breakfast, dressed up, brushed his teeth and went to the bus stop. It was still a little dark and the wind was cold. He was rubbing his gloves to not shiver when someone bumped on him. He watched his suitcase scatter on the sidewalk, spitting his papers like if they tasted bad. "Oh God, I'm such a disaster. I'm so, so sorry, Tim", she said, kneeling to help him gather his papers. "It's okay, it happens... but I'm not Tim, you must be mistaken". "Oh, isn't it? I'm sorry, I just guessed by the color of your suitcase. Who are you again?". "John". "Oh, hello John, I'm John". She stretched out her hand. "What?". She pouted. "Tim, that's not how you greet someone!". His eyes were filled with confusion. What the hell? "My name is John, I said". "Well, so did I, Tim". "My name is not Tim!". She looked into his eyes, handing him the last papers. "And who told you that?". She got on the bus. "Wait!", he said. "Yes, Tim?". "Who are you?". She shrugged. "I'm Tim. Pleasure to meet you, John". He jumped in and the bus left.

Okay, come back now. Let's analise here. The meaning with that was to show a situation where two unknown persons meet and change each other's lives. Interrupting the other's chain of thoughts, conclusions and so on. Imprinting an image of oneself. I confess I went a little off there, but I meant to bring the topic of discussion: something that would change everything. 

Maybe his name is Tim. Maybe her name is John. Maybe they are called Brock and Misty. They don't know. There is no way of knowing the other but speaking. Showing. Hearing. People tend to either hear or speak; few do both. And if we all did...

Open up! Go up to someone you don't know, speak and hear what they have to say. Ask them if they are called Peter or maybe Sarah. Go up to someone you think you know and hear what they have to say. Hand them the tools for a second and let them sculpt a little bit of their own image. You'll be surprised.

Let someone change your future, just in that instant. Notice them. Let them into your mind for a second and maybe find out that they are just like you. That you two are beautiful and you can learn so much from each other. Let me see you, so you can see me. Let me know your name. You, the one I look at all the time, but have never seen.

Hello John, I'm Tim. Who are you again?

Short Love Stories #2: The Jacket

"It's cold."
"Here, take my jacket." He took off his jacket and handed it to her.
She put it on.
"It's still cold."
"Here, take my hand."

To Love Forever

“Who dares to love forever when love must die?”

This is a verse from the song “Who Wants To Live Forever”, by Queen. I came upon this song when a friend of mine asked me to sing the “We Will Rock You” musical’s version of it with her. I must say I was flattered. When I was listening to it, this one verse caught my attention (curiously enough, it is the apex of the song, in my opinion).

Lyrics, poems, verses, words. People stumble upon them all the time, every day. Most of them bump into their meaning, apologize, and move along. I’ve always been a word-metaphor-sticky kind of person. Whenever I hear a good phrase, it loops inside my head for days. And each day I learn something new from it. I wonder.

“Who dares to love forever”, this part is tricky already. There is a big relevance in explaining the difference between “love” and “passion” here. Folks tend to mix these two, particularly young ones. Passion is inconstant. It’s a feeling. It’s the desire for something or someone. It’s the urge of taking someone by the hand and saying to him or her “I love you” (even though that’s not necessarily love), or maybe just sending a love-letter or even writing a song, why not. Love is a state of consciousness. Love is the will of well being of something (we might consider the state of this something, in this case) or someone. The hope for one’s happiness and safety. That being said, I believe that Love, being an altruistic will, is eternal. Or at least it can be. Whatever belief you might have, let’s agree that a lifetime-lasting love doesn’t die with the person. Its memory is still love, and it will always be. As long as it makes the other happy (or had that intention), if it’s not forgotten, it’s immortal. Passion, on the other hand, being the cadence of feelings that it is, comes and goes. It’s mutant, sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s damaging.

There are also several different kinds of love, when I would nominate only one passion. There are yes indeed many feelings in there, but they all consist in one same thing.

“Who dares to love forever when love must die?”

I said that love is eternal. No, I’m not walking over myself here. I interpret the verse as referring to the dying part of all that is eternal. A moment can pass, a lover can pass, but the memories they make will always live on. A lover’s body might die, but his/hers memory lives on. Wherever they are now, heaven, nature, void; you still hope for their happiness, however it may come. It hurts. It hurts when a love dies. It hurts because even though it’s dead, it’s not dead. It’s not dead because a love cannot die. It dies because it’s not present, but the will lives on. And with will there is hope. And with hope there is feeling. Love, in its sublimity, is felt through hope.

There are not many people brave enough to love. Tons of them have passion, of that I’m sure. But passion usually goes as fast as it comes. Some might be dramatic; some might extend the pain for liking it (artists use that feeling a lot). It hurts, but it goes away. After a while, it becomes an “oh well, what can be done” kind of feeling. Love requires courage; you can’t be scared of hurting. When love is true, in the moment it’s at reach, tangible, it is sublime. The moments when everything falls into place. When you understand. The moments that are longed for and missed when they come to an end. The ones that play over and over again on your mind. The ones that break the nonchalance of one’s life. Not many are ready for that. Being indifferent is easy, is confortable. Love hurts, love heals. It comes and goes; yet it’s always there. That is the critical part of it. Who dares to be bound to something that will undoubtedly hurt? We could get into happiness here and put it into the concept of being special for its ephemerality. It is also in the background of everything, parting from the point that every human being’s goal is to be happy. Why do people get sad, then? Well, there would be no happiness if there were no sadness, would it? There is happiness when one parts from the point of sadness and builds up on it. When one departs from sadness through knowledge and builds its path up to enlightenment. Love hurts so it can heal. And the healing process of love brings happiness along. Just like the inconstancy of happiness, so is the inconstancy of love. It must die so it can be reborn stronger. It is always reborn. But are you strong enough to endure every time it dies?

The Human Empathy Machine

I’ve been doing some thinking lately. I very often consider a parallel world where you can know everything about a person from the moment your eyes meet. Like with a machine or something. I wonder if that would be as good as it sounds. OK, maybe it would help a lot to choose who is worth it or not, but it would also take the fun out of it. Let’s be honest here: there is nothing better in a relationship than learning something new about one another. But think! Knowing all that person’s tastes, loves, fears. Knowing if you could protect them or not. Give them something or not. If they have the same urge to learn as you do. If their life is worth living and learning from.

So what if I knew you? Or even if you knew me. Maybe we are the same, you and I. Maybe you can save me and I can protect you. Maybe we’ll never know and I’ll never get to say that I love you, even though I already do. I love you. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know what you think; I don’t know your fears. I can’t read you; I can’t see your soul. I can’t see who you want to be. But I can see who you are and, God damn, you’re beautiful.

The Wish

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How would you describe ‘distance’?”

“The word?”

“Yes, the concept.”

“I would say it is space.”

“Between?”

“Between whatever. There can even be space between spaces.”

“And why does it hurt so much?”

“Because you fill it with emptiness. It hurts because emptiness is full of possibilities, and either they are not at reach or you’re not stretching enough.”

“And how can I do that?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yea, go for it.”

“How would you describe ‘distance’?”

“The concept?”

“No, the feeling.”

“It’s…” Sigh. “It’s the memory of something that never happened. A daydream. It’s faces, voices, smells, names. Things that are not there. But still they hurt. There are good distances. Rebirth, growth. There are bad distances – the good memories. And there is the distance between possibilities. The distance between what you are doing and what you could be doing. The distance between you and yourself. The one that lies, that slips through your fingertips. The one that makes you cry and hell, why not, smile. The one between what you say and what I wish you would. The one between me and you.”

“That is called time.”

“And of that we don’t have that much, do we?”

“As much as we want.”

For those who cry (and those who don't)

Let's change the course of this for a moment. In the background of this blog, behind every post, there is something I haven't mentioned yet. Not because I forgot, nor is it less important. It is, in fact, what brings the words out of my fingers. Music.

My soul has been a musician's since - and probably even before - I could be called a human being. I grew up in a home full of music, movement, art. I started playing the piano when I was around 11 and trying singing some years before that. I, at the moment, study at a music school here in Sweden.

Having said that, I confess that I'm not much of a writer without music. I'm not much of anything. Music triggers the feelings consciousness fails to reach. Right now I'm listening to Yiruma, my favorite pianist, album "First Love" from 2001 (if you don't feel like listening to the whole thing, try the song "When The Love Falls"). He's my soundtrack for writings such as this blog.

Music, on my point of view, is the safest and quickest way into one's core. You feel emotions and sensations you never knew existed. The urge to cry without a reason. I've heard people say they don't cry to music, even if they love it. Fear not - you are not soulless. The feeling of love and understanding of God-knows-what that a song might bring doesn't have to be external. But if you say to me you never felt anything at all with music of any kind, I must stop you right there. Calm down for a minute or two. Close your eyes and think about something and/or someone you love. Let a classic/instrumental song float gently throughout the room around you. Don't pay attention to it, just leave it be. Let it become the air around you. Take a deep breath. Feel it run through your lungs, veins, cells. Allow it to fill you, top to bottom. Allow yourself to be music. Now let it fill your mind, your memories, your emotions. Let it make you smile. Smile to yourself. There's so much (so much!) of you hidden in there. Hold its tail and see where it takes you. Don't try to figure it out, just wander with it. Go within the depths of your mind, or just take a walk on the street. Take your time, there's no need to rush. In that moment, that one single moment, feel the awe of love. The love you are holding by the tail. The Music.

And for those who cry, I invite you to do the same. Maybe our musics meet somewhere along their way. Hopefully, they will. I'd love to know you better.

Quotes #1

"Initially there is always the choice of being alone. Later on it becomes not a choice anymore. When did it stop being a choice? What is it in me that has stopped choosing you, that has moved in you instead so that I must be with you so that I can be with myself?"

Jag behöver dig mer än jag älskar dig och jag älskar dig så himla mycket; Gunnar Ardelius (Page 73)

Short love stories #1: Winter Sunset

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’ve been wondering for a while now if it is that what you see changes what you feel or if it’s the other way around. I’ve come to the conclusion that they both change at the same time, so one might just never know. What about you?”

“I was thinking that your eyes look greener against the winter sunset”. 

The Tip

Someone once asked me what I thought about life. I grinned.

"No one asks that anymore," I said.

"Is it too late to start again?" He smiled back.

"Never is." I looked outside the window. "I find fascinating how, in this spring-winter, the snow not only accepts the sunlight - the same one that will melt it and make it disappear -, but it shines in esplendor and beauty. The same force bringing happiness and sorrow, death and rebirth.

"I dare to say that I believe that a snowflake lives more than most of the people. Life is also about rebirth, and there is no rebirth without death. One must not be scared of it, but embrace it. There comes a time when everything ends, and that makes it worthwhile. Tears don't have to fall anywhere but on smiling lips. Acceptance, joy, they are parts of one same feeling. Beauty comes from the inconstancy of things, although it's not seen until it's eternal. People tend to forget that - I do it too. Nevertheless, it is when you forget it that life finds a way to remind you of it."

His eyes were somewhere else. People passed by on the sidewalk. The coffees were getting colder, but none of us seemed to notice.

"People. Always in a hurry... I wonder how many of those minds are discussing with themselves. Discovering. Listening, speaking. I wonder how many of them feel the Sun on their skin, and not only its warmth. And for the ones who do, I wish they never let the feeling slip away. I wish the brightness never left their eyes. The brightness of the tears of glimpses of understanding, of feeling it. Feeling life.

"We come and go," he continued, "but if we don't cherish our stay and make a life instead of a living, we will never have been here at all. That's what bugs me: mortality. Someone misunderstood the concept of immortality along the way - it's not about the flesh. It's not about our bodies. Immortality is what lives on, despite oneself being present or not. Like the feeling of life. The feeling of consciousness, of plenitude."

"So you think that the feeling of life is immortal?"

"And therefore life as a concept as well. I do not distinguish 'life' from 'the feeling of life'. A lifetime lived without the feeling of life is no life at all. It never dies, even thought it's constantly reborn. I'm not saying that nothing ever dies, no. Things die, thoughts die. They die and cannot be restored. Life is forgotten, but never dies. Forgotten feelings can be remembered. If only I could help them to..."

The waitress came and asked if we wanted something else. "No, thank you," we said, and she left without further delays.

"I wish I knew her name," I said. He laughed.

"How do you know she knows it?" And drank a sip of his coffee.

"That's why I want to ask."

Silence fell. The cold coffees were now half-full.

"But it's beautiful, isn't it?" I said.

"What is?"

"Life."

"Oh, yes. It most definitely is."

We finished our coffees and, smiling, left two tears on the table as the tip.

Smile

The air was silent. As silent as breathing can sound. Her eyes walked up from the hands to meet his. “They are smiling”, she thought. She had never understood how eyes could smile. The concept seemed always too out of reach, intangible. So were those lips. She remembered every single time she tried to get his attention. How she thought it was all in vain. How she gave up, but not really. She accepted. Yes, accepted, that’s the word. She had accepted that those eyes would never smile for her. His hand held hers. He was still looking deep, and yet softly, into her eyes. He knew what he had to do, but it felt like his whole body had shut down, waiting for her to smile. Immobile. He remembered watching her with the corner of his eye. Sighing and laughing not to cry. Remembered all the kisses he never gave her. Her lips were half-opened. A smile passed by his. They were alone, in silence. Music played, thoughts lingered, but nothing seemed to want to disturb that one single moment. Their minds were blank, yet full. He recognized the song. “Ah, this song”, she thought. Her eyes smiled. He leaned, switching between her eyes and her lips so it wouldn’t make her uncomfortable. She lifted her chin. The lips touched, slowly, silently. She felt the tears bursting up to her eyes. He held the back of her neck, never wanting to let her go. The music got louder. “Ah, this song”, he thought.

The Egg

As I turned on my computer this morning to check my e-mail, I saw a message from a friend sharing the following text. It's (obviously) not from my authory, hence I emphasize all the credits to the author, Andy Weir.

I'm not a religious person, although I am a philosopher. Lots of people make mistakes when comparing them, topic that I might enter in some other post, some other time. This text gave me a brand new perspective of life and a reason to smile for the day. Who's to say what's true; therefore I advise you to interpretate it in as many different ways as you can. It's a little long, but well worth it.

The Egg,
by Andi Weir

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”

You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.

“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.

I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”

“Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”

You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.

“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.

A warm welcome

I inaugurate this blog with a warm welcome. The idea is that the beauty of the arts - such as literature, music, painting, photography -, indubitably unexplainable, is explained through not an unique moment and/or work, but from a compilation and background of an infinity of such. But hold! I am not looking for a definite and literal explanation. That being said, what I want is to bring the atmosphere behind the beauty, and, hopefully, the love. The archetype of love. Of Love. The one that everyone seek, and yet so few reach. The one that I can only provide the energy, but it is yours to feel.

We are going to write this blog, you and I. Write stories, sing songs. Create Love, hopefully.