For one of my serial works that I am soon to be posting, The Travels of Link, the main theme is one that I have actually never written about before: the bliss of life. Previously, I’ve been more keen towards the opposite, such as the despair of life or the intrigue of the unknown, befriending the unknown, or living as the unknown or other. The bliss of life? What is that?
My boss often asks me what I like and what I dislike, but when he asks for my opinion on things — food, places, celebrities — I always respond with “they’re alright”, or, “I don’t know”. This is frustrating for him, since he believes that there’s no way for anyone to have no opinion on anything, and yet this is truly how I feel about most things: there’s not much to say, and I could certainly live without them. Living with certain things is great, but if life should change, I wouldn’t be reluctant to adapt.
So how can someone like myself, who sees no joy in apparently anything in life, write about the bliss of life? Again, what is it? What exactly is this bliss?
It’s probably a more spiritual bliss than material. For example, sometimes we are happy about materials not for what they are, but for what they represent or remind us of. Things like stickers and coffee mugs. We probably don’t even use them all, but they’re fun to collect, and we feel happy when we see them. Is it the joy of possession?
It can’t simply be a joy of possession, because that would mean that any sticker or coffee mug would do, which isn’t the case. It has to be related to ourselves in some way, whether it be the looks or the memories contained in the object. But sometimes, the object may also come before the design. Then, am I talking about personal value when it comes to liking things?
But that isn’t what bliss is; liking things may not be as momentary as happiness, but it isn’t as soul-shaking as bliss. Yeah, I’m right, bliss should be soul-shaking, and I would know (I don’t).
Anyways, bliss by itself is confusing, but “the bliss of life” makes sense, especially with the settings of The Travels of Link. That story is just an open playing field, set in the wilderness of a fantasy world where quite literally anything goes for the protagonist. As a story of healing, it is slow-paced and attracted to minute details that take more paragraphs to observe than what should be necessary.
Taking the time to absorb one’s surroundings, to feel the movement inside one’s body, sometimes focused enough to feel every blood cell flow through one’s veins. Would it be focus, or an inclination to look inward? Sometimes focus is needed, sometimes the inclination rises out of an unconscious necessity. In those times, the mind and the body face a similar feeling of helplessness, do they not?
No, it shouldn’t be helplessness, perhaps it is closer to awe and silence. To think that all these processes within one’s body are able to occur without one’s express command, isn’t that awesome? Then, to extend that thinking outward and observe the changes of one’s environment; to follow the cause and effect of the world, how it balances itself without any one command — that induces a sort of tranquility that we aren’t used to seeing, not really.
That sort of “bliss of life” can’t be deliberately expressed in words (though I sure did try in the passage above), but I think with a story it can be told well. The feeling of a story can also invoke specific thoughts that an author has. Ah, actually, I think that is what most writing does.
Well, right now, the sun is high and falls through the cracks in the curtains of this room. There are two different windows here: one has faded light blue curtains with stripes, and the other is heavy and a tinted yellow burlap sort of curtain. In front of me (wait, I just ran to the bathroom just now; I’m back) is the blue striped curtained window, and the sunlight happens to fall directly on my left eye. There’s a rainbow in my glasses now because of it as well. When I started writing this, there was no such thing, only the strips of sunlight falling on the table were the same.
Around the other window, there is a great amber glow. The curtains seem to be heavier and make the light fight more to be seen, so once it reaches the hardwood floors, there is a yellow gleam as opposed to the clear white drops where I’m sitting. The ambient glow is so attractive, I wonder if my skin will also look a little gold if I go over there.
When I think of it, I can feel my heart. It’s fast, probably because of the sugar in the drink I just had. It was a hot drink that I can still feel sliding into my stomach — I’m not too clear on that process, of how drinks go to the stomach with some obstructions so that they do not fall directly, but it is there now and I feel full.
My feet are a little tingly from the cold. Well, they’re the only part of me not covered with cloth, so it makes sense. The rest of my body is very warm, content, alive. I have a good life here.
Anarchism and Other Essays
Completed