Andy's Mind

Learning a new language is opening a new window to the world. New language is a new point of view, new way of thinking, new sounds and a glimpse on a new culture. I learn Spanish now and I already got to the point, where I know that with time I’ll know it as well as I do English. This is a joyous experience. And the moment, almost two years ago, when I started from scratch seems now so distant.

But it occurred to me that it is the same with almost every thing we learn or achieve. It seems distant at first, almost unattainable, then there is the joyous feeling when we manage to do it sloppily, for the first time. And then it becomes part of us. With time we integrate it so deeply it becomes part of the foundation on which we stand trying to learn or achieve another, new thing. And then, some of those abilities connect with our inner core, when we discover they were always there. That’s how we progress through time becoming more and more complex, more and more aware, from year to year, from life to life.

And all that musings because I managed today for the second time in a row to get to the city center before 10:30. Three days ago it seemed as if I was cursed, no matter how I tried I ended getting here around 11. But, yesterday I did it. And today too.

Small things can too be a way in which the mind expresses itself.

People say often: “things could be better” or “he could do better” or, even worse, “I could do better”. Then, they get depressed.

But in fact things are always exactly as they could. And everyone does exactly as they can, at that moment, in that time. Maybe things would be different some day, but they would never be better than they could. Or worse.

Isn’t it obvious? Didn’t you know it all the time? The world just is. The world just flows. And so do we.

There are billions of images. Trillions. Trillions of billions. Each of us sees a thousand images every few minutes. Each of us lives a thousand and a half minutes every day. Each day is a stream of images. And there are six billions of us on Earth, just now. There were billions before us. There would be some more after us. Each of those has seen their own, private stream of images. Trillions of billions of images, scenes, pictures. A torrent, a waterfall of images.

Some try to catch the best of those they are privileged to see. They are like fishermen in a flood or wanderers in a desert trying to catch and preserve the most beautiful grains of sand in a raging sandstorm. They are trying to freeze images as we freeze food, trying to preserve its color, smell, taste. Trying to conserve the sparks of emotions they ignited within.

If they catch them with a machine, we call them photographers. If they do it with a hand armed with a brush we call them painters. If they do it with bare hands we call them mimes. And those of us who do it with words are called writers.

I have been out fishing tonight. I caught some moments – beautiful and not, reflective or sad, mostly black & white. I carried them carefully home, like butterflies, still alive in the grasp of my mind, still flapping their wings feebly. I will now pin them down with words, freeze them, so that I could revive them later in an attempt to induce them in others.

But why? I don’t know and I don’t even care. I have to. They seem so precious, those few out of myriad. They’re mine.

A tram is a bit like a library. I rode one to the city this morning. And as I watched my fellow passengers it occurred to me I could be watching books. Some worn down, large volumes, with paper yellowed by time, others brisk, fresh, thin copies just out of print. Some simple, some complex, some scientific, some poetic. All put into this tight, moving space.

Each contains a story inside, a huge novel, made up of moments, some sad, some joyful but mostly dull, mundane, menial. The best part of all is they are still being written, moving, changing as some memories fade and others rise, as emotions flow, as views change, as sounds vibrate.

If only I knew the secret Language of the Souls, I could read them, page by page. But I can only sense their vibes, the stirring behind their covers.

And I can browse my own pages of thoughts and cast them into words. Here.