Today I was talking with Her on the phone, and She was taking particular pleasure in recounting to me a goof up by someone reeking of sheer incompetence. My laughter did resonate with hers, but somehow I, on that particular occasion, did not feel contemptuous of the person in question. On most occasions I would have. I don’t know why, but I rather felt sympathetic towards her and pointed out to Her that perhaps the lady in question was indeed doing the ‘best’ she could in her circumstances (which included her lack of interest in the task at hand, perhaps some household tensions that we might be not aware of, or some inherent lack of ability that just could not be helped). She and I understand each other very well, so I had not required to elaborate further on what I had meant.
Then, I had ended the call some time later. Somehow, my thoughts had again veered to the above part of conversation. I was finding myself filled with great respect for the very act of living. I told myself, one always has an option to just sleep to never wake up again – that is, to die. Sleep is so sweet, after all! Whatever one chooses to or even most passionately desires to do is filled with some kind of conflict or struggle when setting out to actually do it, which one is always aware of. My thoughts had again veered to the concept of thanatos (click) propounded by Sigmund Freud (in my limited knowledge). Yet, most people, at most times do end up doing something, when indeed doing nothing is an attractive option. I’m not the one to believe that ‘doing’ in turn serves some larger purpose. That all is redundant, but yet, in those moments I was filled with admiration for this struggle, this conflict that every human, just by virtue of living on, indulges in. I’m not the one to romanticize the suffering of pain, yet in those moments when I saw beauty in struggle done by the living human, I had done precisely that.
I told myself, every living human is beautiful, their life is a monument. Every moment one lives, every occasion when one does something – be it the most minor things we take for granted – that act of living, of struggling against the option of not doing, not living, must be cheered. I asked myself, must the life of most hardened and cruelest criminal be also celebrated? I somehow found myself saying a “yes”. I am not here to justify my feelings, because there was no logic to them. That was purely a state of mind, filled with a rare sentiment. What I chose to adjudge as ‘best’ by default that one does, may be adjudged as ‘worst’ as well, because there are no standards here to measure anything (deed or thought) against. I repeat, that is just a sentiment, perhaps, even a transient one.
I asked myself, what is the difference between the ‘living’ and the ‘not living’? I have been aware that there are no real differences. Things exist. Living and not living are merely different modes of existence. But when existence wants to make its presence felt, it flutters, it goes round in great whorls, it emits a blast of wind that for a moment shrouds our consciousness, it creates patterns all around that are hard to ignore, it breaks away from its inertia (of continuing to be in the same state as in the last moment). When existence celebrates its existence, it dances.
Life is the dance of Existence.