Ode to Senses

Celebrate life, dance with it. Joyously, spontaneously, dance the Cosmic Dance. Wave with the revealing night and look up to the sky as if you searched for the words that dispel from your mouth. Let your self –hear– if you want to find.

Then notice that talking is merely a sound, a cosmic sound. Cosmic music. Hear how words have no real meaning but to illustrate the existence. Just like painting the leaves of a tree with the color green. Don’t disguise yourself from this celebration by painting the universe with symbols. Rather, do your art by singing rather by wording, and then hear. You have found contemplation. But to contemplate, you have to –see-.

Then, look again at the sky, and look at the stars; or rather the openings on the dark void where light comes out from. Universal holes celebrating ecstasy and the realization of creation. But a hole is misleading for a hole is no more than a missing particle from the original whole. This openings are no holes but doors. And if a door is there to take you to somewhere else, you have arrived. For you are there as you are here. Look again at the universal holes, these are your eyes looking back at you. But this won’t be clear as long as you don’t –feel-.

Then look at your feet. Hopefully they will be naked and curvy, as a beautiful woman’s body. Let your feet sink into the ground and let your curiosity overtake you fingers so these can play with the soil. Bow down and sink your hands into the ground. Say sink for touching is simply sensing with your sharps ends, but sink is passionate and intense, requiring the whole to experience. Just as sinking fully in the water and never coming out, letting death and life battle for who loves the more. Isn’t this a glorious passion? But feeling won’t be feeling if you can’t –smell-, for smell is the prime origin of all experiences.

So smell, smell to contemplate. For contemplation is a gather of all your being. Smell an apple before savoring it. Rather than smelling, scent, for smell is a crass symbol to describe our artistry. Scent a pomme, as said in the meticulous language of Français. Celebrate this sensuous fest. Celebrate the mysticism found in the odorless scent of modesty! As you scent, desires will arrive, and the will of –tasting– will be immutable.

Then look for the apple tree. Sensuality in its maximum expression. How soft and easy we are when we meet with sensuality, erotism, source and spontaneity. Take an apple. Smell the odorless scent of modesty, hiding a great cosmic taste. Bite it and let its rigidness melt into water of gods, just as if you were Eve savoring the first apple ever rendered to humans by swindle. How –Love-ly-!

Then, after you heard the music you play together with this universe, after you saw your own eyes shine as a countless number of overtures in the sky, after you felt the ground that pulls you and roots you, but also ejaculated you into existence, after you scented the pure expression of modesty, and after you tasted what merely represents all-knowing and libido, then you can –love-.

Then you can love, and love as one of your senses, for sensing is a burden we hold. Burden for it holds us into immeasurable pleasures but definitive pains. But loving as a burden is just a vulgar analogy that compounds pleasure and pain. Love as a burden, away from the formerly said, is beyond a blessing, for loving infinitively and definitively is purely the expression of the universe. And from sensing this existence, this universe, we know, that we are this one, and so for consequence, love is purely our expression as well. An expression that, from its origin ex-primōmeans to press (primō) out (ex). Just as we were pressed out of earth, and earth was pressed out of the universe, and the universe was pressed out of us.

Sense my fellow friends! Sense it all.

 

José Arvide

 

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