the finite self is a lie and I’m yawning

Day 41 of this “yoga challenge.”

Have I lost weight? I don’t know, I don’t ever weigh myself.

I rely on how far down I can bend, or how good my clothes fit.

I feel good, with pangs of strangenesses pummeling my body.

A migraine, a sharp pain in my gut, a broken finger, a sore shoulder.

Life is hard.

We are all dying, regardless of how much we try to convince ourselves by plugging into our strange cell phone worlds that we are not. 

I feel it every day.

I am kinda always turned on by existential bullshit.

I cry and get aroused at the thought of ceasing to exist.

I look at my husband and wonder how I got to be in this reality with him, and I cry at how delicately he says my name, and then as if time was lost, we are making love and then, I am asleep fighting nightmares from my teeth. 

It’s all simple really.

But we like making it difficult.

I think once we realize that the key to happiness is accepting how unhappy we can be whilst understanding that that too will fade and that life is just a series of patterns, like seasons, we expand and grow and wilt and die and that we are not special, but the plants certainly are, then we’ll be—ok.