ir a principal |
Ir a lateral
Who am I?
I start everything with that, whether I leave a space for it or not, but that's where it all begins. From there stems reinforcement and building blocks of some structure I would not mess with, lest I feel afraid to press backspace and erase all evidence of the mistakes I've made. So, before I give the answer, let me leave another world and come back more courageous.
Seeing for the First Time
I've left the ghost behind
at the entrance to the void.
Now
I amble away
from the park bench
to the moon,
which I can reach because
I don't believe in distance.
The moon is here,
wherever I am.
Isn't that wonderful?
I always refer to myself as a capital letter, that's how I was taught English. But I reckon I'm actually an i, not an I. An I is a colonnade, holding up what is above, stories from rooms and roomfuls of semantics. An I is a vertical bridge to heaven, crossed by a little work of art that no one really knows by name, nor by author, but by distant recognition. An I is the world of safekeeping, but a bar in the windowless prison of mind, behind which all secrets are stashed away. An I is the shadow of a larger I, which is the shadow of an even larger I, big in presence. The I is the pole around which sense turns and imitates. Yet this isn't me, because although language believes I am capable of being capital, majestic, purposeful, I am incomplete as of yet, an i.
i am the symbolic gesture of a man who's looking across a gap to something of his kindred that is out of his reach though not out of his consciousness. i am the pedestal upon which floats some crystal ball of meaning. i am the angel grounded with the halo suspended in the air above him, lighting his surroundings as a sun, as yet untouchable. i am that which appears in situations and in warriors and in kisses and in rain. i am forgiving, willing to see beyond the space that seems to separate what has been believed lost from what appears to struggle to keep together. i am writing something somewhere here, sometime, with my purpose imagined, though inexplicably seized as reality. i am nobody, touching the eternal. i am everybody. i am somebody, too, a pez dispenser, a severed giant, a slope ready to welcome a boulder. i am even, these words.
Language may have taken a leap to signpost reality. I is inclusive. i am not, as evidenced by the gap. I is higher, dominant; i, incomplete. Line and a dot, more code, more secrets. I is representative of wholeness, identity with all. i but pretends, aspires, yet is nothing. Language has given me the impression that I is the embodiment of totality, while i am fragmented. According to the rules, i am I though. So I have come masked in this existence, standing tall, the bearer of responsibility. But really, i am frailer, unsure, supposedly something that is, as yet, unfinished. But I am to assume the completed form, to show my invulnerability, immutability, the self that stands centered around which sentences orbit and semantics gravitate.
I am all, so then i must be in there somewhere too. Now there are two of me, the me of now, and the me of anything but now: past, future, all other tenses but the present. Everything to i is relative then, because what occurs is never the whole picture, just details, pixels, morsels, bits. But I has everything, together, connected in all ways, full, wholesome. With this known, the realisation dawns on me, that i don't know who i am. i could be whoever, whatever, because I am everything. As such, i have a double-identity, the I and i, though one is inclusive of the other. The question of who am I thus ought to refer to the i, because I already know the answer. The i represents something, has some place, occupies some space. I was wondering what its meaning would be, but now I am not so worried, having already the answer to everything in me. Perhaps the i just is one path, this path taken now, to the discovery of everything. i am concerned with what will be and what has happened before, where i will go, but I only experience it as now, and now, here, all is known. So all problems, fears, come from the i trying to be I, a next to nothing trying to be everything and failing, being limited. Yet I can never fail, and so i find my purpose when i meet with I now.
Just stay here, now, I tell i.
i respond to I. I i, I.
This has occurred to me several times, but perhaps it's now becoming clearest. I am addicted to thinking, and having seen what addictions can do to people, both indirectly in the media, and directly in the people that surround me, I've attempted to stay away from such external things so as to lead a more balanced life, perhaps set an example to others so that they themselves can see that they don't have to live that way. And perhaps it appears fine, from the outside, but from the inside it has not been the same peaceful picture of perfection.
The truth is, I struggle with thinking because it is my drug. It is strange to call it that because it isn't exactly some substance I feed on, but it's one I know I'm addicted to because it's so difficult to stop it. Even writing this is made difficult by the desire to make it sound good so that it can be read by people and understood and appreciated. But I will attempt to simply let my thoughts flow like a stream of consciousness, without feeding the need to be special.
Thinking is addictive. It gives me a quick-fire feeling that I am doing something. It validates me. Just like receiving a text or receiving a Facebook notification, a thought reminds me that I am alive, and there is something to acknowledge. Often, these thoughts are not positive, because if they were they would not be a bother and they would not come seemingly incessantly. I could describe it as a bombardment of sorts, thoughts coming in and landing without much care as to where, in my field of attention. As each one appears, it demands I listen to it, and if it sounds remotely believable in what it is about, it joins the cycle of consideration where it says what it says and then I hardly have time to decide if it's true or not because there's another thought on its way, usually on the same wavelength. This happens with negative thoughts.
An example: I often get the thought, when I go on Facebook, that other people's lives that I see pop up in my news feed, either through photos or through status updates or just conversations, are much richer and funner than mine. I cannot prove this, and I would not prove this, because it's a comparison based on nothing but my own feeling of inadequacy with my own life, that I'm not good enough in the eyes of others or that I'm not really worth their time because they clearly aren't having that fun with me. When I get this thought, my mind shifts into a sort of 'victim-mentality', where I tell myself that others have not looked at me honestly and considered me for what I am worth, i.e. they have judged me for what I am not. This necessarily implies that I have been attacked by them, in my mind, often taking the form of abandonment feelings or perceived exclusion. This is a lie, of course. I cannot possibly know if those faces that come up on the news feed would ever think like this, and even if they could, I doubt I'd ever done anything to deserve such cruel punishment. But my mind, enslaved in its dreams of doom, chooses to not to doubt the dream's reality and pursues an agenda of thought that reinforces the pain I feel. And so, I get thoughts that say I am unworthy, followed by ones doubting whether I really matter to the people that know me, whether my being in their lives really has any meaning beyond appearances. The thoughts usually center around particular individuals who my mind sees as worse enemies because they have betrayed my trust in not giving me the attention that I desired. They don't deserve this, not by any means. I recognise this now, because I am calm, yet in the moment, it is not as easy to discern this truth from the wall of lies that consistently put me down and swallow my attention. The impression remains once I get off the computer, kept alive by the talking in my head, telling me I'm not good enough. And I, well, believe it.
It isn't true. I tell myself this yet I wish I would believe it. There is still a part of me, that refuses to accept that even though people are not 100% in contact with me all the time, they have not abandoned me. I feel this too often though, and it is strengthened through a domino-effect of thought after thought of negative affirmations. In the case of this thought, many different reactions are possible - one could simply dismiss the thought and laugh at what it says, though I fear to do that due to not wanting to risk my pride swelling. One could indulge in drink/food/alcohol/substance in order to take their mind off the thinking. I chose avoid the ceasefire so as to drive myself insane via an internal war, a war of voices and shouting. Thoughts come and fight against other thoughts to decide on truth, as if truth hadn't already been decided. But it's like they don't want to know the truth, they just want to fight amongst themselves because at least in this way they seem to have meaning, even for the short while while they're causing me suffering.
I'm addicted to the thoughts because I don't know yet how to decide what is true and what is false. "A Course In Miracles" says that is not my job to decide, and I would graciously accept that, if I didn't believe that my ego needed to know things and could know such things too. But it in itself is false, so it'll never tell me the truth anyway. The arguments for keeping it are absurd and do not work, yet they are kept because they are kept hidden in my mind, away from the eyes of others and away from mine too. What would I do if I'd lost my ego? I'd probably live a much happier life anyway, free of cares and worries. But, there's a but. I'd have no secrets, no need for them. No shame. No embarrassment. No barriers. And thus the ego would have no meaning, and without meaning, my existence would be... meaningless? I am more than my ego, but my ego says it is necessary for functionality in this world. I don't wholly believe that, but I believe it more than not, since I haven't yet been proven otherwise.
Thinking is a form of security, protection. Against what? Against being taken over, against the reality that I'm not really in control of my life. Yet this protection limits my potential so so enormously that life becomes a scrap of damaged experiencing. Not worth it, I've told myself sometimes. I need to stop this thinking. I need to. Must. And I don't know how, but I need to do it, otherwise I won't be able to connect with anyone or anything because I'll always be blocked off by illusions and pain.
So in writing this, is my question, my call for help to God, the universe. I am here, not of this earth, but on it, for some purpose. I do not know what it is, though I could think about it and not find it. The truth is, I resort to thinking too often because I don't trust in the connection I have with You. That's to say, I don't trust You. I want to though, because I sure ain't happy trusting in myself and my personal version of hell. Help me out. I want release from my illusions and I want to see the world as it is, others as they are. I need to let go of my thoughts in order for this to happen, and I envision that will be soon, at this rate. Please be there to catch me, with a cloud or something, then take my hand, firmly, and show me the way back to You.
Pulled the earth's weight away,
now I've had enough.
It gave way beneath
and I'm back in God's hands,
disillusioned,
yet crying for what could have been
yearning for what I have seen,
but in pain for it was not to be
and never will have; insanity.
God, this. This has ended.
And my insides crave for otherwise,
for what I could see with sightless eyes,
yet you promised none of it.
Why did I think I could attain
what is not attainable?
How can I achieve the impossible?
And what now? There's nothing left.
He's gone, just as you have asked, loved together.
I budged a place, I lied to my own face
about everything, about possibility,
about my lack of expectations.
Yet I could not rid myself of them,
so I hid, glossed, ignored them,
and they blew up to make notice
of the mess I was making.
This, this comes out of despair.
I cannot believe my jealousy, my hate,
yet it surges and is so misunderstood
that the path's become a crossroad
with a million and two pathways:
one for me, and one for him.
I go to kill, he goes to life.
And I so desperately want to go with him.
But I can't, this isn't right,
I say I loved him, and he didn't back
and we left ourselves unchained
and I watched his back and then his shadow
as it crept away.
Me? I don't know.
Where do we go from here?
How do we carry on?
I can't get beyond the questions.
But, God.
Please do.
Please, help me realise what is not real
ain't.
Napalm is irrelevant, but inspirational.
Seventeen things that could make the day better are really just one.
Nobody claims to know what they are talking about.
Shadows do not dance on the wall.
I don't know what love songs are about, but they make me wonder.
Diamonds aren't forever, neither is marriage.
Solo, in silence, amidst the crowd of a thousand and four spies with no eyes, who I am is. This sounds less impressive, yet more degenerate and puzzling because it is not saturated with meaning as something else might be. The blurriness dispels your ability to judge. Yet you cannot see the truth when it is blurred, so you must come to know it for what it is, without any edge.
All good things come to an end. All sad things come to an end as well. The same end. Perforated by an emotion, dulling can set in. You might feel numb. Unwilling to respond, and confused because you drift. Floating, this is inemotion, a sentiment where you feel you are falling and also know you are not, that you are safe. You wander and wonder about everything. Questioning nothing, leaving everything in its place, you begin to see a distraction in all there isn't, and life in all there is. But the imbalance remains acute and persistent. You know you are love. You know it. Yet your beliefs are torn apart by truth, and you feel you are adrift in a land of unknowns. In reality, you are safely grounded. But you don't always feel that way, and it becomes a process of going back and forth between what is and what isn't to realise what is is and what isn't isn't.
Love is here, it is about opening the eyes and heart so that it can be seen and felt. This means crossing an inexistent gap, making a leap over no distance. Jump with me.
Happiness. I want it, you want it. We both have it. It's time to realise that there is no reason for it there, because if we limit ourselves in thinking that we can only be happy if certain things happen, if so and so isn't there or if such and such happens, we'll have big fat gaps in our enjoyment of life. And the spikes that we do get will be even less short-lived.
Euphoria doesn't occur all the time, no, and it doesn't need to. Let us not make the mistake of conditioning our happiness, because when it comes to joy, it is our natural state. We are children after all, in the midst of our childhood. You could be happy because of so many things, or so you may thing, but you are happy because of you. Because you respond. Because you live, and breathe, and encounter life wherever you go. Because you are honest, because you are light. Because joy is you. I say these things and it may sound like you have to 'do' things to be happy. But that is precisely my point - you do not have to do anything. Do not make the mistake of depending on someone else for it. It is within you, and from there must it radiate, never from the outside, although it might look like that.
Be happy. We are human beings, not human doings.
Do you ever find that there is a period of time when a certain feeling slowly builds up within you and it lingers there until you focus on it, at which point it flees out of the spotlight?
I was watching Bones, episodes 8, 9, then 10 of season 3, and what I have observed in the background is a certain uncertainty (oxymoron). I'm seeing bones and murders being solved on screen and I don't really know what my reaction should be. Yes, I know it's fiction, but television does a good job of fooling the unprepared minds into thinking it is reality. Still, it raises the idea of the murders actually happening in real life (since when was life not real?) and how I would feel about them. Let's run the list:
Bones, flesh, bloody chunks of people - disgusted, horrified at times, apathetic at others when I feel disconnected from the television.
Motives for the murders - scared, *roll eyes*, deranged.
Method of solving crime - looks fictional, fake, because things appear deliberate, but it does raise the question as to how real the methods that Booth, Brennan and the team use, could be.
Background stories of characters - bored at times because patterns appear, eg. lots will murder out of jealousy, lots will lie about the murder then be caught. Oh, am I expecting entertainment out of these cases being solved? It seems so. Murder is a serious thing and it doesn't appear quite so serious on television. Probably because on television it's not meant to be. Maybe television does not show an accurate portrayal of real events.
And there we have it, the conclusion that was drawn. I remember that my English teacher last year said that the purpose of television is advertising. I was taken aback when I heard that, not having thought until then about it. There's 20 minutes of commercials in every hour. 20 minutes of my time in which I would be told about amazing deals on wine at Foodtown, Woolworths and Countdown, some new Dora the Explorer toy that can speak a few meager phrases in Spanish, Yellow chocolate (which incidentally I now want to try), a great mobile phone deal that indicates also at the bottom of the screen that I need to make a long commitment to the service provider, an incredible watch, a fantastic gold necklace that she'll love me for, a cup of soup to cure my three thirty-itis, SkyTV, MySkyHDI, TiVo and then an upcoming programme that I must watch on the same or the partner/sister/parent/insert other family member here channel at 9:30 on Tuesday. Bombardment? Entertainment? I should be entertained by the television programme so when they slip in an ad hook I can have a break from the entertainment and turn my eager shopper dial to the on position so I can be baited and caught like a colourful fish that just can't wait to swim in all the crap that is advertised. Attention? Television wants my attention... it's not a crime. But it's unconscious. I'm not aware of it. But in saying that, I am aware it happens now. The challenge is to be aware of what happens in the moment and let it be. A response can then come.
Oh it's 3:32. No three thirty-itis :)
