Moments and Attempted Spirituality

"Why darling, I don't live at all when I'm not with you." 
~Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
Every year, every month, every week, every day, every hour and every single second is composed with little moments that we cling to because of the way they made our emotions run wild. Some moments leave us with an undeniable grin, some with a undesired lump in our throats. Particular moment's may make us feel like we're floating in an ocean of emotions. Moments are so incredibly significant because of the realizations we come to with each one we hold in our minds.

Theres an indisputable beauty about the moment's that play a role in our hearts. The simple pleasures shared in a smile, the stomach ache from an uncontrollable laughter and the look in his eyes when you speak, all contribute to this whirlwind of beauty. Moments are such lovely things and I find myself hung up on them often, especially when they brought joy to my mind. All we really have is moments. And I can't help but sometimes fall in love with a particular ten seconds.

Some colossal moments are actually spent alone sometimes too. I absolutely adore being in bed. The lights dimmed while relaxing with a novel can calm me down with great ease. Staring at a vanilla scented candle with rain pouring (or at least a mp3 of it) in attempts to meditate have such beauty due to the will at which you are alone. Being alone has an allure about it. You have your thoughts and they are simply yours. There's no one to tell you that what you're thinking in that very moment isn't alright. Nobody can break into your vault of a mind except yourself, no one can shake it. You can cry, laugh, yell and scream and it's you... you just feel.

Words, actions and emotions all contribute to every breathtakingly astonishing moment you're a part of.
But words, actions and emotions also contribute to every afflictive moment you're a part of.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Sight Seeing

Sight Seeing by Nicole Lambe   I woke up on August 2nd, 2018 at 3:05am to bright lights being thrust on by my mother. Hastily, I dragged myself out of bed, conscious of moving my luggage off the floor and into the hall before it got in the way, and slipping on my new Birkenstocks. We had a flight to catch soon, and at 3:15am it was difficult to see, even for someone with full vision.  Grasping my father’s hand, I lead him through the dimly lit hallway down into the lobby. We counted the steps as we went down like we had for the entire week we spent in Sorrento. There were fourteen steps. Not more, not less. Remembering this could mean very little to the common traveller, but to us, it meant that the day would go by smoothly—with no obstacles or injury. He had become familiar with the place and now we were about to move to uncharted territory. New steps to count, new voices to learn, new rooms to get accustomed too.  “Ready to go, Frank?” Our driver asked my father
Read more

I'm writing again...

Image
It’s been over two years since I left the country. With the pandemic, a breakup or two, staying home constantly, I think life had sort of lost its vivacity for me. When I started going back in person to work again, some things just felt different. Toronto had always been this bustling, big city for me that was like a promise. At twenty-two, fresh out of school, it represented everything I’d always wanted— a career in Canadian Lit, full of culture, new opportunities, and art all around me. But after two years of doing that dream job from home, postponing things, it was different. There’s this Hemingway quote, kind of cliché, “I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it,” and it’s been eating at me. I hate to feel like I’m spectating my life. I began to feel awkward on the subway. I didn’t want people looking over my shoulder at what I was reading, I was scared to ask for directions when I got lost. For fucks sake, I never even took an uber alone befor
Read more

What is a Writer?

            The other night, a poet asked me if I was a writer, and I stood there and froze at his simple but complicated question. The word hit me with the force of a mass of bricks. I suddenly stopped and thought, am I a writer? The word felt too good for me, like it was insulting of me to call myself that considering all to the great living and lived writers, authors, poets. Am I a writer? Well, to me no, I didn't think I could call myself that, it felt too good for me.             I once read this book, "My Salinger Year" by Joanna Rakoff to be exact, and one of my favourite quotes from it explained that being able to call yourself a writer takes one thing —   you must write. It's been a while since I picked up that pen, and I'm sitting here with the question lingering in my head, can I still call myself that? I want to, but life just gets so busy and it takes all the time it can get. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want to feel like
Read more