It is already one of those days that even the birds find too hot. This morning, I walked by a poor pigeon, languishing with feathers fluffed out in the only, cloudy, puddle it could find. The ravens give menacing looks from beneath the shade of trees, beaks open, reminding me of dogs - which are nowhere to be seen.
It is the kind of day in which one seems to live despite oneself, and the old folk in the market say, "So be it!" And it is on this kind of day that the troubling questions which had been lingering in the recess of the mind like to step forward, and say, "Hi." Although they are not usually that pleasant, and one sees them lurking there, just at the entrance, and one must coax them forwards, to get the exchange over with. This is what I call expression-which, after all, means the act of pressing out. But the word could hardly better explain, at least to my mind, what is involved in expression, "the action of squeezing out."
The other day, I tried to write about holidays, but today I realised what I was really trying to say. And that thought is the one that I coaxed forwards as I came back from the market. It had been hanging around my mind all week, only to come forth on this anxious day, when even the pigeons are hiding, far from the roofs they usually strut around on.
It is no wonder I feel alone, sometimes. We all do - it is like part of the weather: sometimes hot, sometimes cold - as the old folk say, "So be it!" But what I realised today was how in many ways my past is under threat of being chopped off, like an unwanted limb. And I so long for at least some remnants of "before." I have most successfully reconnected to it  by going on holiday - seeing old friends, repeating the old pattern of having the world as my oyster.
After realising this thought, which had been lingering like an unwanted child, I understood myself better. I often struggle with understanding myself better. As if I were always being asked by someone to explain myself, to settle the account of who I am. Who is this person? I don't know. But the questions begin as a reaction to conversations with people who sound so sure of themselves; in a move of self defeat, I usually indicate I am aware of my own weaknesses or shortcomings. I then feel driven to a process where I am moved to express myself, to myself.
I realise how much courage is necessary to live a beautiful life: one must be ready to laugh and cry. However hard we try to remain indifferent by installing the air conditioner of the mind, orphan thoughts can come forth from the depths and find us. If we want to remain alive, we must be ready to feel pain - unless we want to live with ghost limbs, but even they have been known to itch, mysteriously.
And it is only in asking the question, however painful, that one can get the answer. "So be it!" These are the ways of things. But one thing I can say: unless the heat is turned on, nothing's cooking. Mobility is sometimes spurred on when the fire is lit beneath one...

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