"Now" Feelings

I am alone and I want the world to leave me as such
Detached, thinking, pondering
Deep in thought
Deep in love
Deep in madness
Nonexistent to the world, as the world is non existent to me
Dead in the eyes of all
And alive in the eyes of my own
My flame for life wavers with neglect
And I shall but drift in between waters
Drowing myself with flickering hopes
in the sea of reality's cruelty...

Duality

I am trapped in a world that bears no light and yet no darkness. It is a world of my own. It is a world of sight and blindness.. of feeling and numbness. In my world of darkness, I find my refuge for no one can see me quirk and distort myself, but equally in my world of light I see what I am meant to see. In my world of feeling, I quirk and distort myself for the multitudes of intangible boils and sticky sweat that have been infesting my body, but at the same time, in my world of numbness, I no longer feel their exact intensity for my skin has grown callous and used to them.

I have thought of this world since childhood, when all else seem to exist but at the same time doesn't. It is an experience that is difficult to be limited by words, for words by itself is a limitation. It is the sensing of duality, in sometimes the most uncared for details, that form our lives and beings, that perhaps also pattern the twin existence of body and soul, life and death; opposites both evident in just one being or situation.

The most simplified example that I could perhaps utilize in order to illustrate this point is a crowded room of strangers. Despite the quantity and maybe even the quality of individuals in existence at a given space, should they be of unparalleled interests, the risk of loneliness to crash in the whole event is not unlikely. The irony that even in the presence of all that is material and physical, when the spirit feels no wind to sweep it towards mingling, nothing could possibly be accomplished. And yet, even that example couldn't be accurate enough to explain my present conflict. To hear something that cannot be heard, to see something that could not be seen, to feel something that could not be felt, to experience something that could not be experienced. A dilemna perhaps, another mirage that my brain is playing on me, and yet why does this experience feel so exclusive?

Exclusivity is a blessing, but also a fear that I have both betrayed and loved. For it is in the exclusivity of my knowledge that I could reach for myriads of stars in a moment, that I could ponder on the questions of life without worry of another's critiques, for I understand that it is in the exlcusivity of thought that I am but myself. And yet the worry still remains that though I do claim to be the bearer of my vast being, I myself at times get lost in my own desert of being. I thirst and yet my throat remains dry, for life happens but once and equally lives interplay their onceness into each other's and thus causes the wheel of life rolling, your side fleeing up and down. The influence of other's decisions in their attempt to make full use of their onceness, heavily burdening or enlightening one's own.

And due to this, I have also bore the fear of exclusivity, more so of intimacy. It is no longer the plane of thought and spirituality, but more on the physical exclusivity of the body, limited to one in trust, loyalty and unity. I fear this so for I have not yet mastered the truth of trust, and my mender has not yet decided on how to approach my crack. Trust is but a product of how one is treated in life and I admit that mine has not been one that is worthy to be a model example of such virtue. And thus the physical lends itself to its spouse, the spirit, for the works of the body but feeds or kills the soul. And as mentioned in Amittyville Horror, the the pains of the body could lead more usually to the "flowering" of the spirit.

I have no intent to be dishonest in this journal and in truth I admit that even in my most intense debates with myself I could not get pass the creeping fear of inadequacy. I am not capable of surrendering myself when I acknoweldge myself not worthy to be surrendered. I am not the girl who has everything. And although I've heard guys speak of females they like (have a crush on) as such, I am perhaps not one of these females, and thank God I am not. There is no such being and perhaps if I am to be called to carry within me the burden of everything I would be both traitor and lover, virgin and prostitute, God and demon, and although I am aware that such could be, I have no intent of jeopardizing my mind in order to conform to such hypocrisy.

Let me expound first on how these opposites exist. The mind is separate from the body for what the mind thinks may be betrayed by the body, at the same time, what the body does may be betrayed by the mind. More concretely, an illustration of this point goes that what I say doesn't always necessaily equate to what I mean, the same way that what I do doesn't always necessarily equate to what I am. The same goes that a traitor could betray because he loves, a virgin may be in physical but a prostitute in mind; and a man could be a god in the dimension that he upholds quite astoundingly his collection of virtues, but also a demon for his virtues may be facade to his purest intents.

Returning to my self-analysis, that I fear intimacy due to my inadequacy. It is simply, the dream of the ideal woman could never be actually be in favor of reality, and thus although I may bear such attributes that one may consider to be desirable but it is inevitable that I also carry attributes three hundred and sixty degrees from the desirable; it is also traitorous not only to myself but for others for the definition of ideal is contrary to my/our being/s. Perfection is subjective, that is one I've learned in my previous reflections that being myself is already my perfection, and yet only few comprehend it and only few would apply it to their own existence, and it is but of my own prejudice that I am paranoid of intimacy and love for I do not believe anyone but myself would be capable of understanding my empirical perfection. I do believe in flaws and often times when asked of an ideal person, flaws are neglected to be spoken, and thus maybe flawed description of an actual person comes to mind. Once again the actual vs. the ideal.

The Eternal Tug of War

Once again, the blind finds tongue to speak as images flash in the darkness that envelopes me. It is in darkness that I have learned the wisdom of life, for it is in silence that I experience sound and in blackness that I gain sight. It is in blindness that images fail to manifest their distortions, but in fact begin to resemble all that is ideal. Curious that I remember people but not the blemishes that stain their faces, I remember memories but never the wounds that have disgraced my flesh, I remember getting hurt but rarely the degree upon which it had initially struck me. Is it not in blindness that we begin to comprehend how the ugliness of images could be erased, and there is but justice and equality between all. It is in the loss of sight that we are given the opportunity to comprehend how limited at the same time boundless our capabilities are. Limited by fear but boundless by nature. Why do we fear, is a question I've posted to myself for so often a time, it felt almost impossible to distinguish whether it is truly a phase in life, a foolish drill that has to be confronted over and over again or is it truly a philosophical question that would perhaps lead to a more fulfilled life?

What is fear? A nature we have claimed since birth, and nurture with every second we live. Ironically, sometimes what we fear doesn't always register itself to us as a fear, although it undeniably influences gravely virtually every decision that we are meant to take in life. And as psychology may have suggested that every minute issue that we are confronted would have an integral role in the formation of our person. And thus as an inborn defense mechanism, we resort to fear, trauma and hiding..

Perhaps this is my darkness..

Perhaps..

Perhaps..

Nobody perhaps could grasp the fact that their knowledge of me barely captures the true identity of which I carry. But perhaps, the person they see, and the person they may call as friend and peer and love and child, may actually be only the shadow, the wall that masks itself upon my face in order to preserve myself from the cruel eyes of society. Nobody should and would have the right to claim that they are fully concious of my conciousness, for my life is but of my own, and perhaps but only of my own understanding. My life is but just a framework of all my biases, my experiences, my memories, my dreams and hopes, none of which could be articulated accurately to any mortal being, for what is mine is mine alone and can never be transfered to another; for my life is led by me alone, and only I would be able to comprehend its richness and droughts. Thus, it is in my silence that I know myself, when I can contemplate more fully on the blessings and fragility of myself, and perhaps it is in my purest of silence that you may encounter and know me as well.

I am as I dictate myself to be. Some may see me as boisterous and loud, like a child free from the clutches of reality, immature and unaware of how painful it is to exist day by day in this paradigm of human suffering. And yet perhaps my noise may be the only thing that would make sense to all the senselessness, for what is my tongue to do but to speak of my heart and mind, and even the shallowest of words should be embraced by others in order to understand that the bias in my choice of words would perhaps give away the truth within me in which I have tried perhaps helplessly, to conceal to many. My voice has been faithful in lending itself to my thoughts, as an expression of my ideas, as an effort for communication, and even more so for friendship. My hands, my workshed in which my deeds freely gives away my heart's intents, but executed in such a manner that would either be fun or wild, that my intentions are but overshadowed and taken for granted. My strategy has perhaps failed me, but I understand that it is in my hands if I intend to fail myself. As in the Invictus, I shall always be, "the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul."

And although such words have I written seem strong and fulfilled, I am but another lonely traveller, lost in life for as written by Milan Kundera in his acclaimed book, "Unbearable Lightness of Being", " We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives or perfect it in our lives to come."... "If we have only one life to live, we might as well not have lived at all." Then perhaps my approach to my life may be flawed as well and it is in my contemplations that I've begun to explore the possibilities of the ripple effect, the gravity at which one could influence another without significant thought or intent to do so.

Sometimes it keeps me wondering if there is such a thing as life, or is it merely a Narcissistic attempt at the preservation of the self whether in the present, which is the survival of the fittest as suggested by Darwin, or in the future as the long range effects that one little work could do. Had Shakespeare been such a sloth, we would'nt perhaps be enticed by the witty and alluring works he had created, we would not be blessed or equally cursed with the likes of Romeo and Juliet, King Lear, Macbeth and Hamlet. And thus, had my grandparents been a little more mild, or a little more strict with my parents, could it be that they would be the way they are now, and would they enforce their authority upon my being at the same degree as present? Had my grandparents decided to create massive turmoil and disarray in our parents' memories, or similarly had they become forgiving and flexible, would my parents even consider lending the same amount of attention or neglect as they exhibit at the moment? Then perhaps the attempts of my forefathers have such an enormous responsibility as to why I am being treated the way I am now, and perhaps as to how I will be treating my future offsprings, should I have any.

Then life is truly a game where no one truly wins nor loses, it is a game of balance, whereas Arundhati Roy's God of Small Things, wife of the God of Big Things, compromise but still pull with polar forces with each other in the eternal tug of war in order to gain control of balance, in order to bring forth the birth of the essence of our existence.