(Inspired by a word in a song)
Breathing, to inhale and exhale air, to be alive. To move and flow gently, to be manifested as an idea, a feeling.
Breathing, a simple word with such easy definitions, but dig deeper, and you'll find yourself in a completely different world.
Breathing has already become a part of life, a process you cannot live without, not unless you're some sparkly vampire who apparently breathes just for the fun of it. Breathing has become so habitual that you don't even notice it when you do it. It requires virtually nothing--no effort, no materials, no machines or anything; just the fresh air around you. You breathe when you talk, when you eat, when you sleep; anytime, anywhere.
You just breathe.
Even the word breathe sounds breathy, like you're uttering it with a strange fragile breath, like it might break anytime. Bree-th. Bree-th. Your lips split apart softly to expel that short gentle breath that forms the word, and air escapes through a tiny opening between your teeth, your tongue, then through your lips. Like a strange sort of delicate jewel you're cradling with your hands, that if you use too much force, it shatters into a thousand shards.
I like the way the word sounds. That fragile, precious feeling you get when you utter it. It brings together just the right mixture of sadness, gratefulness, and all the vulnerability in life. Breathe. Our lives depend on this tiny little movement, this insignificant word. It's so easy to stop a person's breathe--clap a hand over their noses and mouths, suffocate them with a plastic bag or a pillow, crush the windpipe. Once you realise how much we depend on this tiny, easily-destroyed action, the vulnerability of all of it simply makes you feel grateful. Grateful of the fresh air you're filling your lungs with, the purging feeling when the fresh air replaces the ones you've used up.
How many times have you read, or watch about people watching other people breathe? It's almost too common nowadays-- a mother watching her newborn breathe, the tiny chest rising and falling, mouth slightly O-shaped; an old white-haired man beside a bed, holding his companion's hand, watching her chest rising and falling as she sleeps; a wife watching as her husband sleeps, her head on his chest rising and falling with his breathing motions.
These seemingly simple scenes in plots of movies and books do so much in holding the characters together, so much more than you'd ever realise. There's something romantic about it; sometimes it's sad, sometimes you feel relief, sometimes it's impending doom. So many emotions invoked, simply from one insignificant action--breathing.
How many people in this ever-busy world can claim that they truly stop and breathe? Workloads, stress, the never-ending worries of money, materials, glory and fame. They all come down on you, pushing on you, leaning heavily against you that you never really realise it's getting harder to breathe. That's what appeals to the movie-watching folks, those book-reading romantics. How many of us had slowed and stopped to watch the people in their lives breathe, before it's too late?
I guess the word appeals to me because of the purging feeling you get when you finally get to breathe. Deep, soothing, fresh inhalations of pure, clean air. Sometimes it's just hard to breathe--when you're sad, when you're trying not to cry, when you're frustrated, or just pissed off at something. Sometimes it's like the world itself is against you, putting every obstacles imaginable in your path as you try to take just a meagre step forward. Times like these I try to tell myself to stop and breathe, remind myself of the wonders that are still mine, to remind me sometimes you have to let things go in order to breathe again. And usually it's those times I get motivated again, grateful again; I feel okay again.
Breathe. It's such a beautiful word, don't you think?
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
