Life is rich in everything except intimacy. Robbed of intimacy, a certain sense of awareness and aliveness coursing through one's veins, a secret sense of being and connection with oneself.
Life is good, even colourful. Not high colour perhaps but not low either. Eventful. Full of the general good. Not quite flat to be dead. Not, quite fizzy. Just at a point where there is a promise or hint of a fizz, just enough to remind one of a fizz almost forgotten, and flat enough to not get one's hopes up. A fizz on its way to becoming flat... a reminder that it will soon become flat...
And, there you are ... caught with knowing what is fizzy and an awareness of how it will be flat.
And, there one is... in this suspended sense of flat aliveness... not dead fully. Not alive either.
A little like the Schrodinger's cat. Hopeful, that someone will come and open the box and deal this state into some form of definiteness. And, yet like the uncertain cat sitting inside the box, unsure if it should continue to hope for aliveness or pretend dead.
- SS [28/6/2019]