I happened to see this morning, upon scrolling through the latest Facebook posts, the following entry by an acquaintance of mine, a friend of my ex-wife's by the name of Fitri.
When sleep is more precious than Travel. But after I sleep for more than 10 hours, I feels useless.. then I started thinking to Travel again.. life drives me crazy recently.. I need more.. I feels I never get enough.. I need to do something while I’ve been doing a lot of things.. sad.. anyone up for some advices? Please ...
The first thought that came to my mind was that this reminds me of my ex-wife, Sant Louis--a desire, one might even say a compulsion to travel, to be constantly on the move. I once asked whether she ever felt that she was running from something. Yes, she said. I'm running from you.
But that's not quite right. What she meant, I think, is that she was firstly running from a future that looked frightening to her, where my worsening health and eventual demise are concerned. Moreover, she was running from what looked like stasis to her, like stagnation. In the face of so much visual abundance, such as one sees in Bali--among those in the higher circles, anyway, and among the wealthy bules in their opulent villas--she felt oppressed by the sense that she was missing out on the good life, envious of the riches and possessions of others.
Of course, for me--given the way I was raised, the patterns with which I am familiar--this was not stasis and stagnation, it was comfort in simplicity. It was normal. I had, after all, travelled to the other side of the world, to dwell in a place that is widely considered to be a paradise. For me, there was a sense of arrival. What was left was to was to make a life in this place, not to search for another.
I think of the words of Emerson. I am a weed by the wall. I thrive where I grow and I grow where I thrive. I love the stone that I cling to.
Nonetheless, I will often see Fitri's sentiments active in the world--especially in the world of younger people in our time. Sleep seems a waste--it has put you behind; for whilst you were sleeping, you did nothing, you went nowhere, and so you have lost that much time from your limited future, from your limited youth. You must move. You must not stand still.
I need more, she wrote. I feels I never get enough.
How much is enough, one wonders? Doesn't every addition of more gradually become too much, and thus less in some essential way? How can an endless more be incorporated, digested? Does not this insatiable hunger ultimately feed on itself? And while you were moving, what got left behind? You will never know, because you did not stop to look, to taste.
A rolling stone gathers no moss, as the saying goes. A hundred places and experiences peel off such a stone as it rolls by, always moving to a different place. For all of its travels, it has retained nothing, it has gained nothing of permanence.
I need to do something while I've been doing a lot of things..sad.. anyone up for some advice. Please .....
How very poignant are these words! It is as if a part of Fitri--perhaps the part that had been sleeping--has recognized the very essence of the conflict. While ever hurrying on, she has, for a moment, caught up to herself.
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles, Walt Whitman wrote--
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good help to you nevertheless
And filter and fiber your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop some where waiting for you
When sleep is more precious than Travel. But after I sleep for more than 10 hours, I feels useless.. then I started thinking to Travel again.. life drives me crazy recently.. I need more.. I feels I never get enough.. I need to do something while I’ve been doing a lot of things.. sad.. anyone up for some advices? Please ...
The first thought that came to my mind was that this reminds me of my ex-wife, Sant Louis--a desire, one might even say a compulsion to travel, to be constantly on the move. I once asked whether she ever felt that she was running from something. Yes, she said. I'm running from you.
But that's not quite right. What she meant, I think, is that she was firstly running from a future that looked frightening to her, where my worsening health and eventual demise are concerned. Moreover, she was running from what looked like stasis to her, like stagnation. In the face of so much visual abundance, such as one sees in Bali--among those in the higher circles, anyway, and among the wealthy bules in their opulent villas--she felt oppressed by the sense that she was missing out on the good life, envious of the riches and possessions of others.
Of course, for me--given the way I was raised, the patterns with which I am familiar--this was not stasis and stagnation, it was comfort in simplicity. It was normal. I had, after all, travelled to the other side of the world, to dwell in a place that is widely considered to be a paradise. For me, there was a sense of arrival. What was left was to was to make a life in this place, not to search for another.
I think of the words of Emerson. I am a weed by the wall. I thrive where I grow and I grow where I thrive. I love the stone that I cling to.
Nonetheless, I will often see Fitri's sentiments active in the world--especially in the world of younger people in our time. Sleep seems a waste--it has put you behind; for whilst you were sleeping, you did nothing, you went nowhere, and so you have lost that much time from your limited future, from your limited youth. You must move. You must not stand still.
I need more, she wrote. I feels I never get enough.
How much is enough, one wonders? Doesn't every addition of more gradually become too much, and thus less in some essential way? How can an endless more be incorporated, digested? Does not this insatiable hunger ultimately feed on itself? And while you were moving, what got left behind? You will never know, because you did not stop to look, to taste.
A rolling stone gathers no moss, as the saying goes. A hundred places and experiences peel off such a stone as it rolls by, always moving to a different place. For all of its travels, it has retained nothing, it has gained nothing of permanence.
I need to do something while I've been doing a lot of things..sad.. anyone up for some advice. Please .....
How very poignant are these words! It is as if a part of Fitri--perhaps the part that had been sleeping--has recognized the very essence of the conflict. While ever hurrying on, she has, for a moment, caught up to herself.
If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles, Walt Whitman wrote--
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good help to you nevertheless
And filter and fiber your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop some where waiting for you
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