Thoughts, Trust, Translation

I have this feeling right now, as I'm talking to my friend who is suffering and away in another city, of being distant and alien. I'm trying to tell her not to worry about her exam, and trying to make her aware of the psychology of what she's doing, as I see it. Basically, trying to make her more conscious of her actions and what consequences they are having on her mentality as she's relaying to me and I'm interpreting. I've done this many times before, with her, with others, so much so that perhaps it's become my schtick, part of my identity. Yet, having done it up until now, I'd felt like I'd had something to give, like I could help. And now, in doubting myself, I also doubt what I can say to her, since it's the same problem that's cropped up just in a different format each time. I suddenly feel distant, like the language I'm using to speak to her is different to hers. And a different dialect means communication is broken, at least on the surface. At least to me. She replies laconically with a 'LOL' and a 'k'. I don't know how to interpret that. She says she knows what I mean and that she'll try take my advice. I say 'good'. This is where I leave it to faith.

Maybe it's my own insecurity that I'm projecting onto her own mental imbalance that is making me feel that I've lost my 'touch'. I'm not as much in contact with who I thought I was, and so, confidence aside, I don't really believe in what I'm saying as much anymore. I talk about love as if I know what it means. I talk about fears and their non-existence but as illusions in our minds as if I abide by those rules, yet I don't. I haven't yet learned enough of these lessons that I try teach others. And it's making me feel inadequate, like I ought not to talk to them lest I teach them something 'wrong', even though I don't believe I can do that.

I just feel confused really. Uncertain about who I am, at the core of it all - and so, everything, everything that rests upon this foundation, now is blurred. "A Course In Miracles" did say that in order to follow it, I would eventually end up questioning everything I believed in. And I accepted that, perhaps not wholeheartedly. But now it seems real. Doubt has entered. Ok, I understand most things are not as I thought they are. And yet, it has to go deeper than that. And I feel that the deeper I go, the more distant I become from the world, from the people in it, from what they do and what they think about. That's... unsettling. But perhaps it's only unsettling because I am still trying to think my way through it all. Thinking's a defense mechanism for me. It reduces all change down to an interpretation that maintains my mental schematics and plans as intact as it can. But now, everything I'd been working for, built in that schema, is under doubt. Does it really matter? Well... if I think about it, I try answer yes and say why and postpone and delay. And if I just leave it? I come to an uncomfortable feeling of... 'no, it doesn't matter.'

So it doesn't matter that I don't know what my life is about. It doesn't matter that I have tried to build an image of myself as always being there for other people, sacrificing myself along the way. It doesn't matter, because it's not true, and it's too hard to maintain anyway. It doesn't matter who I've tried to impersonate. It doesn't matter that I've questioned my sexuality and haven't concluded anything concrete. It doesn't matter that I tried to attract the attention of some of my friends over and over and over again, seeking validation for what I was doing and thinking. It doesn't matter that I was trying to make things that didn't matter, matter. It still doesn't matter. Because at the end of the day, I'm not the one that decides what matters and what does not. I am not God. And so, all that I've 'striven' to maintain, a "Cris" that is nice as can be, intelligent, altruistic, caring, loving, emotional, determined, proactive, sociable, approachable, going-that-extra-mile-for-someone, not asking for much in return, all that, doesn't matter. It doesn't.

I'm not saying I am a waste of space because I'm not. I'm not a victim here, despite what my ego would like me to believe. But it doesn't matter that I tried to be this way, and not, say, a bully, or a heartless asshole, whatever that means. Because, I feel I've cheated myself in trying to use this 'good' image as a ladder to get love from people, attention and validation particularly. I think part of my image used to be that I didn't require these, and when I was given them perhaps I took them for granted. And now, now that I've gone into my thought patterns, I've unmasked that there is a desire, suppressed, for attention and validation. I thought I was above those, but apparently wanting them just makes me human. And I ought not to be ashamed to ask for them. The 'how to ask' part I'm a bit hazy on, however. Maybe I thought I wasn't human, I was better than human. Imagine that; a human thinking he is better than a human. False superiority complex. Yeah. This isn't unconditional love at all. Yet, maybe the attention and validation that I'd gotten is the closest thing I've come to, so far, from what I can remember. Yet the past is gone so what am I left with if I'm not to dig up memories. How can I even tell if something is unconditional if I don't trust it, anyway?

The love I get, I have to trust. I think that's the lesson. Trust that it won't go away, the truth in it is ever unconditional and will remain that way. The question my mind comes up with then is how can I tell when someone gives me love? And that requires trust, too. The desire to see it, too. I remember something: If I believe someone is hurting me, then I will believe I am hurt. And if I believe someone loves me, then I will believe I am loved. I prefer the latter. I would prefer it be the truth. I can't translate from anything to truth though. That's where You come in then. Be my translator, please.

Faith To Let Be, To See, Really

Can you imagine, how it feels, the day you decide to walk on by, past excuses, past the little cowards of encouragement, through the wispy veil of fear, and out into the light? There, where the rain reminds you of rebirth and not the gloom of past days kept sickeningly frozen, you'd finally see me. Not with your eyes, but with your breath. Not with your ears, but with the thousandths of inches of spaces in between your freckles. You'll realise that death parted us not, but that we forgot to laugh our puerile confusion away. I'm smiling as I write this. I remember what it was like, before we lost ourselves to who we weren't. Funny moment. Funny timelessness. Inoubliable, yet it passed and the skies felt grey when drops dropped from it. What happened?
What happened to us?

I am here, in the sentiment of the day, experiencing fullness to the rim yet patiently waiting to overflow; for you, to come beyond the doors. To smile. A genuine regard never looks at something, but beyond it. When you look him in the eyes, you but gaze into me. You hate him. And you fight for him because you want him close to you, you want to prolong the pain. Just days ago, you willed peace, and it was given you, the feeling that you are. And you still are. What happened that made you look away from the mirror? Did you see a glint in his eyes, a fabled attraction, the hallucinatory guise of attack, about to pounce? Were you scared? Were you doubtful of his trust in you, or yours in him?

This is a crisis of faith. You and the magical window. I talk about reflections, them being everywhere. Sometimes you look and see them, then a shiny surface again scares you. Because you don't see yourself in it.

But you're in them, I know this, yet it makes you want to run aground, push back the ocean so you can hide away from it. Fear isn't real. What you are afraid of, this enemy that you perceive you are, is not there. But you hate him. That's what it sounds like. But if you looked not into his eyes but beyond them, you'd find yourself there, but without the timorous visage.

You don't trust him because you don't see you're him. You lose faith in God because you forget He's there. You choose not to listen. You choose not to see. You choose not to be who you are, because, love scares you. You are so petrified of being hurt by what cannot hurt. You stone man, you can walk because your feet are not frozen. You can sing because your tongue is not still. You can speak because your breath has motion.

It's not any of these things that makes you alive, though. You know.

Faith. And Love. And Joy. And Harmony. And Peace. Sweet Peace. It is all here, where we are.
Let me show you.

Crossing Over

Faith, that little miracle,
Carried off the shelf
I don't know where I'm holding it
But, ye hover, permeate.
I am dead.
Ye know, ye recognise,
Rejoice that it's today,
That I died yesterday.

Faith, hold on to these reins
As I sit back in the chariot.
I promise,
I'll go where you take me.

A Hand Still Outstretched

There is a written rule, on gossamer,
that movement ceases when I scream
and refuse to listen to the peace, silent,
trying to protrude through the dream.
Where is faith - while I hold myself
by the throat, unwilling to deconstruct
the torture chamber I built, misguided,
seeking to live as I have been instruct.
Care is mistaken for harm, I know this
yet refuse to unchain myself - be not
my anguished self, a lie, but give the past
away, exposed, so it can be forgot.
Is there care where I have buried my soul,
or have I no faith that I am already whole?