As I feel the pain in my heart and stomach, the crushing pain that comes on suddenly, and centers my attention on hurt, I am learning to sit with the pain and question the coming.
I am noticing specific ways in which I allow myself to hurt, not through intention and deliberate attraction, but primarily through habit. Primarily through expectation, want, need, and attachment.
I confuse myself with another self, forgetting where I end and another begins. I recognize we are all one, and in this way the lines blur. Yet, I recognize, equally, whilst in this body, whilst representing this being, I am the one responsible for my actions and reactions. I am the one ultimately in charge and in control of my thought processes and the navigating of my land.
Were it so, we were each liberated, and entirely free, cast out of the burden of societal expectations, greed, and exploitation, perchance, per very good chance, my life would be less burdensome, and my mind more free. For I would not pick up on multiple levels of destitution and misery; I would not cling to the wallowing fear that penetrates the world.
Still, as it is, I have a choice. I see this clearly, now. Through months of tears and processing, both at a spiritual and mental level, I have reached an agreement internally that at last makes some sense. The primary answer being in the way I choose to take in what others give out in response to their own life and choice of being.
I have mastered the element of acceptance, the willingness and ability to accept my own self in completion, through the shadows of guilt and the shadows of admiration, without pause for trouble. I am no longer challenged by what I am, or who I am, and I have left the cluster and preponderance of the reasons behind the truth of me on a shelf somewhere served better for a time before time, not in this moment of entrapment. And so I go on, very much solid in my light and truth, yet, still without the freedom of the absence of ache.
I hurt. I hurt at the deepest level of a self, if self be. And I cry out for reprieve hourly; and even then, inside the molecules of minutes I weep. My days are a constant deciphering of joy and sorrow; each moment set upon me as a wave that breaks open the soul’s heart; each moment another beat of me broken. I do not say this with a tone of demise or misery, nor do I speak of this with acceptance, but rather with what is. This is what is. In truth it is nothing more than standing back as observer of what be, and watching some form transpire and move through what is. I am nothing more than this: the observer of being.
And what is of being, well this steadily alludes me.
Still I watch without caution, instilled with the coating of miraculous. My eyes beseeching more of what is naught than what can be claimed as real. My trumpet calling out in the music of form undone. The sound breaking through the barrier of nonexistence. For had I not been here, I would not be, and had I not found myself, I would still be. The thoughts drifting like philosopher’s broken spittle, splatterings of splintered mysteries.
I am that I am.
And all else ceases to be.
So what of the ache that calls and surrenders my will, brings me to knees, and springs question my own self worth, worth of a self that no longer exists? What is this attachment and to whom is it sewn, stitch by stitch, the needle bleeding out into the fabric of another lost soul?
I see, now, clearly, it isn’t that I am made destitute by another, it is that I choose to harbor in the bay of old ways; if not by habit, then by the enticement of what is familiar and deemed adequate.
I choose to be in the wallowing of what I know as real, when indeed the real is only based on the familiar brought on by repetition.
Had my words made more sense then, I’d be not where I am now. So still, I remain, lost in the confusion of the mind, whispering to myself, such nonsense you spill. But still I go on, rather as observer then spindling one of ego-breath.
How can it be that I can step back so freely and open, and divide open the wall before me and find the inner truths? I often ask myself this, as I bleed out through the trumpeting of fractured I.
And still I carry on. Some lost soldier in search of nothing but the return of home.
Walking forward when no direction exists; no plane for that matter. It is the casualty of the sleeper awoken, the line that folds and bends as string between presence and no presence, between being and un-being. Substantially, I walk, as the seal without purpose, pouncing the heaviness of my body on this wobbly fin of truth.
Is it not this man, I chose to be my god, instead of me? Is it not this woman, I chose to be my truth, instead of me?
This is the barrier of light unveiled. To think I put my light in the hands of another, when all along I had released nothing but phantom. For no man, bearer of truth or not, be what I be. I am that I am, and, thusly so, no other can take the light that begets source, that forms my sun, that is my light.
Though, still I think that this is so, that some beacon of hope exists outside the realm of one. That some echo of man has left a trail of footsteps to follow to his lap, and in this way I can sit and be sheltered, lathered in the folds of someone else, protected in the fashion of the proverbial shepherd shielding his singular chosen from flock.
And still, I wonder about, lost in a world of confusion, searching for this one, this answer, even as I know the answer be in me, in the chambers I have opened and the window I have entered into my own light.
And so my key be this. My key be forged and cast for thine eyes alone. What is in me is enough. I need not remain lost anymore in the quest for another.
I am the other. I am that which is that. I am that which is all. And no truth remains outside of the love of self. For once the burden of discovery and hunting is laid down as sacrifice, and the quest is given up, for no reason except acceptance, then the truth unfolds as willingly and merrily as the present retrieved by joy-filled child.
I am this innocent one, opened up as the ocean, dived into and brought to my very own surface. Untouched and unmoved, and endlessly penetrated by the waters of love.
It isn’t that he exists out there. It isn’t that she exists out there. No one there harbors my soul, for my soul is already safe: tucked in the waters of thy grace.