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.