When born, one has to learn to breathe. When born again, one has to learn to
breathe again. And again this is going to be a painful process, leading to the
beauty of rediscovered worlds.
After a ten years break, at last, I am sitting now at the desk again. All different. The world, the language, me. A child become a parent, a new disease
turned into a routine, residence sprung from the biggest land to the little one.
I live in one, but both live in me.
I am sitting at the desk in a beautiful little land, while my dishwashing
machine is doing my and my family’s dishes, and the perfectly sixty-five-degrees-warm water, dancing inside the cubiform device, is flooding my heart
with gratefulness. For the dishes, for the water, for the people, for the time.
The time. Sometimes it smells like fresh air, other times like smog. Sometimes it tastes like a glass of water, other times like chewing gum. Sometimes
it sounds like a lullaby, other times like teeth grinding. It can also feel like
the universe, and then, suddenly, a cramped stuffy box. What an Einsteinian
impermanence! What a permanent hocus-pocus!
The focus. I am sitting at the desk, palpating my focus. It flies away. One
minute, three minutes, five minutes. It flies away. This butterfly is not easy
to catch, it is used to flutter from flower to flower, from post to post, from a
piece of news to another, from a task to the next one. This butterfly has to be
tamed to serve.
I am sitting at the desk, focusing on breathing. Focusing and breathing. Breathing in now sweet then bitterly smoothie of ideas, concepts, theories. And I
feel, I am born. Again.