dividing and boxing our lives

I just need to begin and start putting words on this blank page. That's really the only way to get anywhere, by beginning and conquering that mini-molehill-mountain-nebula and start the adventure. Yet as I write here today its so easy to think that I have nothing to say, and therefore never begin. But clearly based on these last sentences I do have something language-based that is flowing from me presently. Perhaps "nothing to say" really means nothing that my ego-idealistic Self sees as valuable or valid to add to reality. Yet that doesn't automatically mean its useless material, because some mental construct in my head called "I" or "Me" says its no good.

Why is it that I rate things? Categorize sentences into good and bad, and experiences likewise too. It seems that this dividing and boxing of reality into rating containers only leads to a sense of lack, of yearning, that is near invisible yet ever-presently permeating experience. The longing existence continues no matter the rating either: you say one event was great, and now you miss it; or you say this experience sucks, and now you've invalidated it. Both good and bad veil neutral, often needlessly, I think.

The next time someone asks me how a certain trip or experience was, I'd like to respond "It was." and leave it at that. Because that seems to be my lived experience, more and more; simply the acknowledgement of a happening, without discoloring its transparent state with shades of good and bad.

Their is a deep sense of solace in the neutral; in the slow passing, busyless days of porch-sitting and sky-watching. Often that's all wickedly successful vacation is: a length of days in which doing, and filling the calendar, is understood to be fruitless. A span of time where, for once, just Being is adequate.

I feel as though I am circling the drain with this topic, so I'll let it be, for now. Maybe you found a glimmer of eternity in this rough, rambling musing. Or, perhaps not. Either or, for now, I rest.