Like An Ache — What Does Life Feel Like?
Like an ache, sometimes dull and drowsy, like an illness waking from the numbed effects of anesthetic, sometimes like the pain of a sharp blade of a new sword striking mercilessly through the lifeblood of the day, sometimes nothing at all, like the flat lands of a barren desert for as far as the eyes can see.
Like the warm air beneath the wings of an angel soaring into the clouds, sometimes like the deep inhalation of the scent of gingerbread cookies wafting through the house, and other times like the hot passionate clench of a lover’s hand.
Like the piercing brutality of a shard of glass wedged steadfastly in the flesh, sometimes like a paralysis of the mind, countered by its own incessant whirring, or a pit of despair so vast that only the black holes of the universe compare to that void.
Like the indescribably soft touch of a baby’s skin imbibing a reflexive protective instinct, sometimes like the swell of pride standing tall on the pedestal of a sunny day, sometimes like the wet lick of a puppy’s love so vivacious in its expression.
Like the grains of sand giving way between the toes, other times like the unyielding force of a charged argument, sometimes like the wind blowing bitterly cold needles onto the face, sometimes like the satisfying sweaty heat of a post-workout glow.
Like the tingling excitement before a lover’s kiss or like the soft melting of ice cream on the tongue. At times like the gripping fear moments before an accident, sometimes like the celebratory joy of blowing out candles on a birthday cake.
And as lives come, so do they go — back into the ether from whence they came. We celebrate one event and mourn the other. We laugh and we cry, we propel ourselves from one end of the vast spectrum of human emotion to the other, seeking the pleasant and averting the pain.
Sometimes it feels like the silent morning dew that only the birds were early enough to see Nature drape, other times like the roaring of the ocean resounding powerfully into the air.
At times it feels like the driest of droughts, parched and unquenchable, and sometimes like the cascade of stars falling like a curtain of fireworks around the globe.
And they are none of them more valid than the other — all of them cascading pigments of a paintbrush over the surface of the human canvas. So much we attach to those colors, painted by ourselves and others. And what of the white canvas?
That is where the fabric of truth be woven, that is the plane of existence from which we must look, from the sheer brilliance of its blankness, where there is nothing, nothing at all.