Whole

For days I’ve been reflecting on what it means to stay. Originally, the word comes from "to stand again" — how many times are we talking about when we say we are staying? Many times I’ve struggled to stay, to stop. I often feel the need not to stop — to feel that I’m moving, even if only mentally, toward an idea. Then, once I get there, little by little the feeling returns — that urge to move again. How do I stay? And from there, my reflection drifted into something more abstract — the idea that I don’t have to stop entirely, physically. There are many shades, as there are in everything. To stay is a ritual — it’s wrapping yourself in emptiness and getting to know yourself starting from nothing, from where, over time, we create our own space within a larger one that surrounds us — but we have to give it time to host us, and give ourselves, our bodies and sensations, the chance to sink into it. Once we’ve found ourselves in that emptiness, grown and evolved, we can stay again — in a different form of space, mental or perhaps even physical, we've transformed. Then moving will make sense again — staying elsewhere and finding ourselves in that next form, which will be part of what we’ve gathered and at the same time let go of. So I would tell myself: go, change, and find the spaces where your being can take shape. But give the world time to welcome you and challenge you — give other souls-in-the-making the chance to interfere and influence — and give your body, your sensations, the time to react and take form. Stay as many times as you need.

Only in stillness does space begin to form—space where you can shape your body and fall into the void of sensation