Some answers 1: Light

A friend asked, "what is light/warmth/affection?" as if I knew how to answer, and I took the responsibility of indulging as if I have answers to betroth. This friend is the becoming of scratched surface and wine, FYI. I have no idea why she would bother seek my thoughts, though if it's because my mind is hardly locked in her presence, I shall never know. She said she knew pain and tenderness, perhaps like a bruise that never heals. But I think when she said she knew longing and loss, the "little" that she comprehends about loving isn't so little at all.

Cause right now, my nose feels tender. I went overboard my me-time last night and used this heavenly purifying mud pack, then exfoliated my face, then proceeded to extraction of stubborn whiteheads... and today the only meaning of tenderness that I know is sponsored by the odd feeling of pain when I touch my nose, even the slightest.

What is light?
I remember buying the book The Unbearable Lightness of Being because I liked the images the title conjured in my puny head. Given, it's a well-loved book, followed by praise and veneration by people such as I who carry melancholic little hearts; suffice it to say that I bought it like a stranger to a casino. The dice jumped off my palm, rolled and landed on both darkness and light. I can't bring myself to say something about the book other than I felt lost in it, a very usual effect of second-hand pleasures on me. To know what light is is to find comfort in the unbearable exposure of self. For others to pick on, for others to judge, for others to segregate with hopes that there would be another to welcome all the scattered pieces.

I told E, she who carries poems in her womb, that I choose to live this life floating. Floating because I learned that it's most fun and comfortable for me to lose a bit of the control and take flight, albeit just a few inches of the ground for a few seconds. To float is to know the distance between your ideals and your reality--and to stand in that inbetweener world--with pleasure. I like floating because it gives me the luxury to reach for the impossible, as if I were a foolish dreamer who can afford such foolishness *such foolishness!* without me being forced to ever forget that I should be grounded by concrete and tangible factors such as feelings, people, responsibilities and well, my physical needs of satisfaction and fulfillment.

To be light is to be air and boldness. I feel lightest when I can breathe easily, and I breathe easily when I am honest to myself. I feel lightest when the world that surrounds me is a beauty, and by beauty I mean a realness that I didn't stir with my own finger. I feel lightest when I know that there are things I don't know but don't even need to know in order to stretch my lips half an inch wide from the sides. I feel lightest when my mind is quiet, and it's quiet mostly in the arms of love.

I dislike romantically speaking of love for I tend to speak like a frustrated bard. But love, heady or complacent, is a feeling that helps me feel lightest. I feel lightest when I can put my baggage down, not an inch away from my side, perhaps with the sling weaved tightly on both wrists, but put down nonetheless.

I feel lightest when I see lightning strike. It's scary yet majestic to imagine the heavens quarrel and play bowling when the rain is pouring hard.

Consequently, I feel lightest when I laugh so hard I forget that something's funny, and I just end up exhausting the blissful blessing of a moment such as... yes, that.