Kafka, writing is a form of prayer- quotes and thoughts (Kafka, Zenon,Woolf)

Franz Kafka,

 he is quoted to have said:

writing is a form of prayer...


i CAN be!


Zenon:
..the flying arrow is at rest..

or more difficult:

 “What is in motion moves neither in the place it is nor in one in which it is not”.

Virginia WOOLF

"From this I reach what I might call a philosophy; at any rate it is a constant idea of mine; that behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we — I mean all human beings — are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself. And I see this when I have a shock."
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Why do i bring these excerpts and quotes in any connection.
First of all because.
because my mind is free to do so.

then because i see all we do as fiction, we narrate us, 
we narrate each other to us, we walk around with
a fictional conscience changing with fictional experience :
as true it may appear for each one- but experience changes in the space of time.
we really need to see this if we ever wish any approach a freedom
of being in this world. and we have to see us as inter-dependent
with the essence and breath of the universe in each being.

We have to invent us day for day and relate to a world
changing each moment and moving, 
a world  which is meaningless when we have no way to see through it, the "cotton wool", inside and outside.

and as we move we have to act, at rest in what we do, and to find the way of action is not looking how to escape and avoid difficulties, no, we must invent our way.
and doing this we need language, navigation, sign posts in the otherwise
senseless wheels of chaos and void.

we can call this way towards finding and keeping close to essence 
and continuously  navigating through clouds the art of living.

Here, in my life, we wasted a lot of time not being soft and sweet
and fearing communion because we know all about unreliability, lies,
impermanence and separation in so many ways, we know we are fallen angels
and will often fail each other and not reach essence all times. 
only the grace of love can unite us and give us joy and happy moments,
and only seeing from a space of peace and warmth inside we can meet and walk together.
When we know we can protect this space and truly know the other one will, 
we can hold each other close, hold from falling, laugh, cry, console, caress and
open and be.

the flying arrow, the word yet unheard is at rest: when it reaches its aim it may not have been the aim at all but a miss.and everything can happen. let us be careful with arrows and words, we can all hurt each other much too much,
we need to find a space for intimate silence. at least i need this, even if this is only with me in solitude.

in seeming contradiction to this: i need to write.
and then reflect.
after.
alone.

i agree that writing can be prayer, to manifest what was already present
but not seen yet, to give a presence and a present to the loved person, to oneself,
to the suffering of his world.
this way prayer is the purest from of presence, be it music, a poem,
it can reach the deepest in soul and flow out of it to embrace and touch.

we are incorporated, so is the term, though i see us as emanations
and travelling spirit with a physical experience and consciousness,
with a desire to sparkle and a longing for union, for fusion with the source of life and death.
it  is a  film , we are actors and directors, producers and drops on the water,
we are nothing and all.
and then..there is the music too...calling, pausing, teasing, initiating
old rites of becoming. and it has always been there.

From: "The Waves", Virgina Woolf

"The sun had now sunk lower in the sky. The islands of cloud had gained in density and drew themselves across the sun so that the rocks went suddenly black, and the trembling sea holly lost its blue and turned silver, and shadows were blown like grey cloths over the sea. The waves no longer visited the further pools or reached the dotted black line which lay irregularly upon the beach. The sand was pearl white, smoothed and shining. Birds swooped and circled high up in the air. Some raced in the furrows of the wind and turned and sliced through them as if they were one body cut into a thousand shreds. Birds fell like a net descending on the tree-tops. Here one bird taking its way alone made wing for the marsh and sat solitary on a white stake, opening its wings and shutting them.

Some petals had fallen in the garden. They lay shell-shaped on the earth. The dead leaf no longer stood upon its edge, but had been blown, now running, now pausing, against some stalk. Through all the flowers the same wave of light passed in a sudden flaunt and flash as if a fin cut the green glass of a lake. Now and again some level and masterly blast blew the multitudinous leaves up and down and then, as the wind flagged, each blade regained its identity. The flowers, burning their bright discs in the sun, flung aside the sunlight as the wind tossed them, and then some heads too heavy to rise again drooped slightly.

The afternoon sun warmed the fields, poured blue into the shadows and reddened the corn. A deep varnish was laid like a lacquer over the fields. A cart, a horse, a flock of rooks--whatever moved in it was rolled round in gold. If a cow moved a leg it stirred ripples of red gold, and its horns seemed lined with light. Sprays of flaxen-haired corn lay on the hedges, brushed from the shaggy carts that came up from the meadows short legged and primeval looking. The round-headed clouds never dwindled as they bowled along, but kept every atom of their rotundity. Now, as they passed, they caught a whole village in the fling of their net and, passing, let it fly free again. Far away on the horizon, among the million grains of blue-grey dust, burnt one pane, or stood the single line of one steeple or one tree.

The red curtains and the white blinds blew in and out, flapping against the edge of the window, and the light which entered by flaps and breadths unequally had in it some brown tinge, and some abandonment as it blew through the blowing curtains in gusts. Here it browned a cabinet, there reddened a chair, here it made the window waver in the side of the green jar.

All for a moment wavered and bent in uncertainty and ambiguity, as if a great moth sailing through the room had shadowed the immense solidity of chairs and tables with floating wings."