My revolution looks like…

19 08 2012

Yesterday, a friend of mine posed the question: “What does your revolution look like?”

I had to step back and really let this question become more than just words. My first thoughts were- what is it, exactly, that I am revolting?

My free form exploration of this idea is as follows:

I am revolting against fear.

The fear of loss, of incapability, of intolerance. The fear of failure, of strife and of lack.

I am revolting against time.

Deconstructing the perceived binds that are held by time, the limitations and boundaries that inhibit and stifle, the idea that there is not enough time. The miscalculations from now irrelevant past equations, the idealization of future events yet to occur.

I am revolting against space.

Releasing the need for a specific locality for proper manifestation, seeing the unlimited potential that stretches endlessly and connects all.

I am revolting against matter.

And the limitations I implant within myself when I take for granted the physical world that surrounds me. The world of light and subatomic waltzes is within all. Objects are merely uniquely constructed and arranged particles which are given life when named, categorized and observed.

What does my revolution look like?

My revolution looks like the ocean at dawn, just before the tide comes in. It looks like steam rising from the asphalt after a summer rain. It’s a leaf blowing down an alleyway, moss on a tombstone. My revolution is the faraway look on a child’s face as they watch the full moon rise in a starlit sky. My revolution is liberty, and is my birthright.

—————————————————-

Today, I took a walk and saw the world with a new set of eyes-

Here’s some of the beautiful things that caught my eye as I walked:

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“…how they twinkle”

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How the dew drops dazzled like diamonds in the sun!

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As I walked a little further, I noticed a hill of ants in the sand, unknowing (or perhaps, not caring) that I was observing them. They went on with their day, my presence having no effect on their determined march.

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And then I saw a tiny aster, two in fact. One at the latent phases of blossoming, the other with well formed seeds.

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“Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere” -William Cullen Bryant, the Death of the Flowers

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Before me, there are always windows and doors, avenues and passages- and promise. And my revolution is within every now.

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