Order and Chaos
Chaos is the name of the first god in Greek mythology. You think of chaos as lots of stuff falling and flying all over and spiraling into a vortex, sort of. But Chaos, in a radical sense, as the beginning of the universe, must be nothingness. A state of so much disorder, I can only imagine, that nothing is ever... yet.
Order is a name I give to... a cute tray I got from the supermarket that can hold my eyebrow pencil and the fan’s remote upright. While I pretend to forget that another carton box that holds all cables and “techie” things has not been taken care of and has collected a bit of dust. Trivial objects that I tell to just stay there, because they look orderly, and lovely too. How ridiculous.
I love how when we were little, every purchase is special, almost holy. A trip to the stationery shop every other week was where I would browse the aisles for hours and hours without feeling like I need anything. Mom and I would probe the shelves and judge everything we see, especially the books. Does it look worth it? We would ask, and compare, and ask again and again. That way I learn how just by being thoughtful, we end up getting exactly what we want and need, no more, no less; once the choice is made, it becomes the right choice.
But along the years I also learned the epiphany of splurging just because I can. The pleasure of rushing without thinking, of giving in, get it before it’s too late. It’s like instinct. Whatever catches our attention. Color, sound, smell, touch. A convincing thought that this one object will solve all your problems and will change you for the better.
People never cease to argue each time something, or someone, is lost to the world. An actor hanged himself. A singer OD’ed. Somebody goes to jail. A known monument suddenly caught fire and get damaged pretty bad. Every time, the community goes through identical steps. The mourners. The reprimanders. And others, whether or not they care. It just repeats, over and over, again, ad nauseam.
I never gave that any thought, not before something similar struck me and without preparation, I felt involved too. Two years ago, a singer I admired took his own life hanging by the ceiling fan. And the event shook me too well, the feeling, the strange turbulence knocking the door of my mind, compelled me to know why this was happening to me. I found out they named it Grief. Because over the course of your life, you have formed a connection with that one person, or thing, to the point they represent a part of you. That explains when they die, a part of you dies with them too. That sort of connection can be anything, and you may not realize it has formed until it’s severed. What results is the feeling of loss. Like losing a leg, you will never feel whole again. But the bond somebody made, others did not. Some mourn, and others don’t.
But grief is real, so real. A whole journey. All five stages of it. And especially, the stage of acceptance.
It’s strange how the biggest truths must all be a subjective and personal experience. That is why the self-help industry keeps proliferating. Modern gurus sprinkle their profound learning via paragraphs full of cliches. It’s lovely.
You ever ask yourself, what do you do? Me, I dream. It sounds so insane and out of place, but it's just as real as everything else in the world. Even more, it allows me to experience the true meaning of freedom. Because in a concious dream, once you hit that level of awareness and self-control, even for just one second, there is no unseeing that truth. You would fly off, leaving your whole physical existence behind. You would know, exactly, the meaning of having nothing to cling on to but your own sense of self. Because you would understand that nothing in that world is real, all is a creation, all is just a thought. To me, freedom inside a dream is a call to return to nothingness, to chaos. It is an act of letting go and being let go, while fully knowing and feeling everything there is.