Meaning Something to Someone Sometime

I think I know why I've been investing into so much frantic angry energy these days as of late: I'm avoiding the deepest level of my humanity, and that is my impermanence, that is my death, that is coming. It's my human hurt, the one that is so afraid of all the things that I don't know. I'm only here for a short bit and my investment in the daily takes me from the weight of that reality. I'm just a little big voice afraid of not being heard, of not meaning anything, of being just another one of billions, of being one little life, one organism that will cease, whose heart will stop beating. I'm so afraid of not meaning something great that I distract myself from meaning anything at all. I'm afraid to face the realness of my heart, the heart of a child, that was one day untainted and special, but the longer I lived the longer I looked away and complicated my intention with other peoples' layers and words and meanings. I am on days quite lost and mixed up and without the art or articulation that could someday take all that I am and let it into someone else's heart. So please lord, so please friend, so please stranger, if you hear me... let me know, because it may be the only thing worth hearing. If I can touch you and you can relate, than we can go through this thing together, and the loneliness of a moment doesn't have to live a lifetime.

All of my stress comes from resistance. From resisting the obstacles that come up. Sometimes, you know, I try so fucking hard to get things right, or to just do something that, to others is supposed to be done a certain way, and then I come up against side swiping surprises or delays or hardships and I freak, I get angry and push against what I now have no choice but to face. I try to thinks of ways to smooth things out or get around the resistance that the physical world has offered up, and if I can't think of a way out, or if "the damage has already been done" I get angry or shame-filled or sad or disappointed. All understandable reactions I suppose. I'm pointing out here that this emotional strife comes from resisting the resistance that the physical world offers.

It's hard to always be paying attention to "all" of the details, to not miss a tiny strand of error or an element of a process that seems secondary to the main construction of the goal. It's hard to not make any mistakes. Mistakes are native to being human, and the society we have here runs on things "running properly." People get fired for mistakes, they lose their jobs or polished reputations. People will hold mistakes against you, no doubt: employers, customers, friends and even sometimes family. 

So I say this: it's not the world that I'm fighting against, it's my perception, it's a human kind of persecution that I fight. The world and universe and this physical realm is simply what it is (whatever it is), and many things happen; it's the human construct of process, construction, execution, completion, and goal that causes me emotional strife. I'm disconnected from the harmony of how this place works. I'm trying to make it right, correct, perfect, proper.

A journal about relationship

We owe it to the people that we love to be honest with them, even if that honesty says we don't love them as much or in the way they love us back. We owe it to them and ourselves to not surprise them, to not hold back. 

          But sometime, it's too late, too late for honesty to not be a surprise, sometimes, for our own reasons, we held back, held back for too too long, and now this shift will come with shock and shake the world of a person whom we care about so dearly, to whom we've lied by omission. 

          It's a hurtful safety we offered to ourselves and them for this long; it's a protective destructive force that we've harnessed this long. It's a bomb built by avoiding that which will now explode. It's a device constructed out of years of our own pain, it's a construct built by lies and brought down with yet more of that which we desired not. 

          Only now we've tied another to it and are passing it on, unintentionally of course, but nonetheless, now to destroy that which helped protect and create a house in which to avoid, we open the door to even more pain. It was a distraction, a foolish attempt at plastic happiness. Fake. Not our own, but theirs, feigned, in front of them, by the lie we thought would save, but all it did was save up to blow open and flood onto another we love. 

          Sometimes honestly is a very sad truth, but only for a short time after the lies have died, only for a short time after the fantasy has faded, only for a short time after our ability to connect to it and voice it, articulate it has come to us. It's the lies that make honesty a painful thing to face.

Blood and Guts and Fame and Fortune

The possibilities that real life offers up aren't glamorous or polished or perfect, or organized straight or efficient (in the modern sense). These places and events are slow to change and quick to crumble, they are dirty and lost from sense or explanation. They are heartfelt and not thought up. They are mysterious and loose, not tight and always obvious. It's not easy and happy to live out these possible happenings here in real life; it's rough and heavy, filled with darkness and covered in sludge. They're weighed down by the past and simply unaware of the future. The possibilities of real life are not edited together or corrected and deliberated, presented in a light that offer envy and perfection to the onlooking eye. We don't just roll this out onto the red carpet or put it in a tux, a dress or high heeled shoes; we shove it down and wash it's face, pluck its brow and cover it enough to resemble King and Queen. We stretch a smile overtop of it and call to the crowd to howl down the sounds of rumbling nervous stomachs a farts, hiccups and burps. We wipe the shit off it's ass and call it clean.

Rarely I get to the point when I just don't care anymore and it helps me be successful. But then creeps back up my spine the nerves and the "caring" once again. It ages me and weighs me down, I can't play freely when I care so damn much. Give me the release I once found! Give it back: the value to my life, the perspective that makes it such: valuable, with or without the positive outcome. God! The more I care the more a flounder the more I mutter and putter and miss the point! I just want to be free of the stress that I've come to be so used to feeling. Let it go man! Let it go!

Sometimes the reason we don't get something in life is because there is a piece of us that doesn't want it.

Your mind is like an ocean and you can command the ship that is your focus through the water of your thoughts.