Can you tell the difference

May 6, 2022

Did I miss it? Did I miss the whole point?

This feels so damn familiar. You’ve been here before. A hundred times. A thousand.

The warm office chair caressing your back like an immovable block of black marble supporting its commander from the storms ahead and those of past.

There is a constant lingering white noise meandering through the open window. Metal shells on wheels hurrying vital resources through the vast network of roads to and fro.

The houses outside your window standing in a row like solemn statues lost in thought. The warm morning sun painting half of their faces lemon yellow from the brim of the nose to the top of their noggins. Their innards still asleep or fitting their fluffy bunny slippers on and sliding groggily down the stairs to brew the black hot oil that starts up their chug.

Behind you the dream machine still lies warm. Your pillows like jetties frozen in time. A midnight storm well passed. Comforter a reminiscent of a giant wave still rolling in mid motion. Climbing high, crashing. Who is the maker of this bed anyways? The captain who rides through the rough seas and calms the weak knees?

It’s the captain who’s now empty stomach is growling. It’s wailing for that same black oil brewing at your neighbours.

This is how it begins again.

The dust sprinkled on the black home office desk like fresh snow on black asphalt. A stack of books half read. Ear marked and noted. Pink post-it notes with ink tracks telling of times past, spread on the charred table like a ripped open wound in the blackened field of lava. A half open sketchbook with the letter T hiding in the shadows waiting for its turn to be complete. The ever burning screen stirring, turning, churning out its colors with a deafening consistency at the glassy filters of your soul you’ve come to know as eyes.

The morning light from the window gently spreading its wings on the wall leaving meek shadows in its wake. Everything still half done. The painting on the wall partly covered in light, partly in the shadow. The barely lit towel hanging on the closet door. Its folds sloping down to reach for the floor planks still swimming in the darkness the sun has yet to paint bare.

The beauty in the now. The space in every moment. It’s always there. Always patiently waiting. Waiting for you to open your eyes. To stand still. To observe. And to welcome it.

You are here. You’ve arrived. No where you need to go. No one you need to become. You are home. You are found. You are ready. Just as you are.

A black and white photo of the author Jussi's smiling face with shortcut hair and a short beardJussi Tarvainen

Former pro snowboarder. Author at night. Multi(failed)-entrepreneur. And mostly an awesome designer (said, my five-year-old son).

plenty more loot in the vault

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