Feeling is a Form of Thinking

We knew we were alive by our pulse and heart beats ambitions and embarrassments, pain. We lived to feel and laugh but was this all life was about really? What about all those numb moments in our basement flats, bored and waiting for tomorrow? Were we dead then? And if we were dead, how much of our lifetime was living and how much was dying? How many living creatures have there been since the beginning of time? Why did our lives matter more? Because they were ours? Because they were present? Did that make them more significant? Going to the office day by day and getting wasted on weekends mattered more than all the innumerable lives gone before ours? Thinking and drinking when we were in a hurry right in the middle of a war we were too afraid to be fools and believe that everything current that belonged to us has travelled through generations and depths and eras to find us and it relied on us to fight for it, for humanity and the future and the earth and hell and heaven on earth, it relied on us to keep going after death when and if our souls would survive the destruction of our bodies we’d continue to fight for simple things like when and wherewhat time is itwho am I.

What it felt like to be alive? People asked me about living and its so-called meaningful variations at the most inconvenient times when I was either too low or too high to be in a state to give any descriptions about immense vibrations and sunshine and tears and fragments of brokenness. I imagined her glow in that blurry bathroom mirror thinking about seeing me next and I declared that her anticipation at that particular moment contained the whole essence of being alive. The “looking forward” glow. She was so imperfect and so perfectly beautiful while carefully calculating which day to wash her hair, which dress would most easily be lifted all the way up and with her charming fear of feeling everything and too much of it and many more insecurities and excitements and things that must have been swimming inside of her, I urged people to ask themselves what made them feel alive and to replace that global curiosity with actual soul-searching and truth about what drove them and woke them up every fucking morning.

If they dared to ask me again I planned on telling them about this impulse to be mad and on top of the world and high on whatever we could all get our hands on that drove us through long road trips and bar crawls and orgies in the whole wide world and I was still desirous of everything simultaneously I let it hit me in my head and in my veins and out of breath but still breathing wanting more and endlessly. I stepped on the floor as heavily as I could to feel I was living and then everybody drank to life and thirst, nature and seasons including cold wind in our faces, burning souls and flesh. The more we were free the more lost we got, confused with each other and ourselves seeking rocket-fast strong emotions higher than the sky and we were goddamn obsessed with truth, the rawness of each truth ugly and embarrassing everything that flowed out of our mouths was fucking true at each given moment and we kept jumping it was almost unbelievable to be so lucky to be alive and aware of it, we were penetrating the universe with thoughts and flights to beaches and mountains and forever golden stars, that’s what we had along with our beating hearts we had falling stars inside of us and nobody had the right to ask us of trivial matters and not even of what it felt like to be alive because nobody understood and we were too busy to explain anyway.

Our forever-beloved Sartre said that in its encounter with Being, consciousness can introduce negations such as absence and it is only for the conscious that something is said to be missing. So do we really miss someone? Or is it our being connected to our consciousness that thinks there is something lacking because it expects our void to be filled? Only because we would feel better if that one person was next to us didn’t justify the missing the lacking the needing that made us furious at the universe and blaming it for our lonely nights but even if we were in the wrong, we still felt that void and we dreamt of stupid things like socks and pasta and a smile and all that we craved, we craved because our world came into existence rather than nothingness. There might have been a reason for us to be born and there might not have been, but we were here forever-compelled to chase the ones who run away and at that particular time of my life I was George Bailey, hopelessly planning vast travels around the globe and always staying in town even though the difference I was making in other people’s lives wasn’t as grandiose as I wished for it to be.

That Italian charm remained powerful even in times of not being able to see those little white socks as hot at all, the gleaming objects and body parts in the dark and morning sun rays and her annoying embarrassment while I fucked her all summer morning, everything blasting out of me and I was sure as well out of her the blurred division between lonely and suffocating nights endless Wood Allen movies and then she would light up a cigarette out of the blue and she would make me happy I was alive to watch her move and hide from me saying ‘come back for more’. Our world came to existence instead of nothing for a reason, for all of our souls to crave fireworks and fight for some loves and not cash and glory even though it would all just come and go to dust anyway. If yes was the only living thing what would you ask for? What would you answer? People didn’t deserve our restraint of not showing delirium in front of them, I drink more wine to that because I need an excuse to drink and I somewhat believe it without overthinking but we were existent and delirious and whether we admit it or not we were all fighters and we were all lovers chasing someone only because we liked their smile and we’d get there where nobody will run away and where we’d know all the questions and the answers would be unnecessary.

I locked myself in this little room of mine and wished for every single thing and object to turn into jazz, the chairs and table the sofa bed and cutlery and my crazy heart beats rolling inside and out of my sleeves and pants on the floor and ceiling breaking through the window snapping out of me in insane seconds and so, suddenly all of the sides of the world tune in and we altogether sing along from the top of the mountains we keep going forward with whatever we have learned so far in life, it was enough to keep us high and alive. I drank every drop of wine and turned the lights off my feet still running still chasing more madness without any restraint of delirium and some loud Blakes hotel rooms popped in my head somewhere dozens of people were snorting powder and denying who they were and I kinda wish I were there to tell them there was more to life but I was useless I was drunk and they’d say they had it under control anyway and the circle of life was unstoppable so I had to jump out of bed again and go find people and lovers and have the energy to speak up about what I knew. Bells ringing busses through my stupid window and Spanish neighbours and too much of what didn’t matter I stayed up all night calculating possibilities of saving the world and saving her whether she was obeying or not I didn’t care anymore I craved those little white socks and I craved for truth and the urgency of things because not everything happened at its due time, we had to fight and get it and move and adjust it and hold it and let it go and allow it to come back billions times until we found peace or disturbance whichever we were after.

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