Trying to tie new knots. Tying them tight.
Twirls of twils, closely bound. Who did this? Fingers strain to find a slack. The ends fray and oxygen gets in. Seeing the light in between the spin. At the end of the rope, I hold on, suddenly caught off guard, the jerking motion twists my entire body. I awaken to see the knot that is not. The other end of the rope belonging to no one, the end of the line. I think I’m twisting. But I am wrong. I am coming undone. Unswisting. Untwinning. Unwound. Unbound.
Is this why we seek the familiar? Tightly wound braids. Pretty, strong and stable, tethering us to the end of the line? Knowing that to unravel means to have splintered fingers, jagged edges of the pavement cutting into our very surface? Towards the end, there is a free fall towards freedom? And before it, the tumble and drying cycle, the undoing of the past knots. For how long? And how fast? How many generations are you undoing? Is it a part of your life? Is it even yours? Does it include your parents? Their siblings? Their parents too?
What I see is too bare to keep my eyes open. The lies I used to tell. Not lies back then. Logic of a work in progress brain development. The story of a child.
About a month ago, I saw the threads I used to create a tapestry of my own worlds, using the evaporative imagination of my mind. Why evaporative? Because at the time of creation, it was the water I created to keep myself sustained, floating and wrapped, suspended. To feel everything and nothing. Holding my breath, not letting air escape out of me. Like a gumby. Stay upright and make no noise.
To exhale is to let go of the breath. Intuitively knowing the oxygen I breathe in can kill me. Carbon dioxide, the byproduct of blood oxygenation.
Letting go, I rise. At the surface, I see the sun. Intuitively, I arch my back and gasp for air, letting it fill my lungs, all the way to the bottom of my abdomen. In and out, ragged breath that slows. And the thrashing of the arms and legs, coming back to life. This stillness, the frozen frame. What kind of a movie is this? Until the feet find a hold, and I stand up. Water shakes and dries.
And like this, everything evaporates. The only water is the sweat that beads off my forehead.
While freeing, it is dizzying. What I had believed to be true. The definition. The meaning of life. Of love. Core ingredients of wanting, longing and defending. Untrue. Not at all.
Vapidity of it all. Mistaking flow for motion. Mistaking sacrifice for love. Mistaking so many things.
And to open my eyes. To see the reality of the situation. The awakening.
It hurts. The heart clenching and unclenching. Letting go of childish ways. The brown bear with dull eyes look back at me. To let go of the plush toy that I used to hold so dear. Mistaking it again for the love that it is not.
Yesterday, as I slowly exhaled, moving one leg after one another. Clear blue skies, no sign of winter or rain. Heaven opens up, in a shape of V. Is it a victory sign? I look behind me to see the infinite rays of the sun warming my back. I keep moving forward, thinking I did well to leave the busy Lion’s Head. Too many cars parked and too many people to fight up the peak and back. Turning around and driving towards Table Mountain. To parking and walking, doubting myself. Did I miss the turn off? Is this where we were last time? Passing a pair of people with speaker of music on. How many bends do I turn? Until I see the pathways I don’t remember. Because I was with someone else last time. Who knew the way. Who set up the hike. Thank you for showing me the way. You and you and you. All of you.
About an hour to summit. Double the distance from the Lion’s Head. Do I have time to walk down? Not enough time. And I don’t have sunscreen in my bag. I get a season’s pass and ride down with two local hikers.
Tried a new mountain, and I liked it.
This morning, I tried a new incense brand. Second scent. Didn’t like either. And so, not everything new that I try, I like.
To Platteklip Gorge of endless stairs. To leaving the gorge of darkness and using our own legs to climb out. To waving and wading. To rising to the surface, to feel the sweat beading off our entire body.
To rainy days like this.