I am innocent and kind and good, and in so being I think others will be the same. I believe that people are innately good, because that is all I know of me. I punish myself for not being good enough, even as I know that is not beneficial in mainstream thinking, even as I know it seems to be evidence of perfectionism, or other earmarks for some form of self-deprivation. I see, it in truth, of knowing who I am innately and wishing to reflect to the world the source of who I am.
I am not discouraged by not meeting my own self-inflicted standards, nor am I able to set myself in comparison to another. I am not surrendering my faults and labeling myself bad or wrong, I am merely longing to reflect to the outside source, beyond me, the purity within me. I am the light, as are all, and in so being I wish to be light; yet, I am wrapped in this skin of humanness, and here I become blinded to my own ways.
I wish not to do harm, and wish not to falsely represent my true self. But in this wishing there exists constant barriers abstracted from the reasoning mind. For what is harm and what is of this ‘true’ form of self? From here I become lost, at times, in a down-drift of self—a snowstorm of sorts, blinding me with the cold-bindings of temporary frigidness, a standstill of thought, circulating through me as movement of choice. Where in truth there exists nothing but nonsense of what a part of me has collected from an outside source.
I wish to be me in a world that tries to dictate who I shall be and reinforce my existence with fear and trickery. I am a truth-seeker amongst wolves who deem me unworthy, and stand doused in an arena filled with blind followers wanting to please and be recognized for their worth. The dilemma being that this ‘worth’ they choose to be recognized by, or wish to be recognized through, is based on illusion and thievery.
I feel fear. I sense fear. I recognize fear. And in moments of temporary illusion, I too become this fear. I am unable to be within the scope of this land without repercussion to my very soul. For I know all at once so many truths and deceptions, that to mediate with the opposing forming thoughts in my own mind becomes a task requiring abundance of energy. To release the thoughts, is at times, the only means of escape. For as burs from the open fields, thoughts collect upon me, torturing me with the tearing open of wound after wound.
I am no longer then a truth-seeker, but rather a victim of my own ways, letting in what is deemed poison by the ones who mask the venom as truth. I have sense, and thusly, open rightly soon enough into the scope of reason and ideal beyond the dogma of this society set before me as rigid path. I have reopened the part of self that sets me free to my own demise or own victory.
Rather here, there are opposing views and polar opposites that move as friends in a room of lathering hope. There is nothing here of truth, beyond that which mind grasps as so. No societal whims or structure is made ready to identify my reality. Nothing taught is left bound, but rather unraveled into a whirlwind of speculation surrendered into relief.
For nothing exist beyond what thought has formed as walls, and nothing moves forward in my world except that which I have allowed for my wellbeing. I am neither dictator nor director of my reality, yet a gentle surrendering waiting for the next venture.
Nothing I grasp onto or erect becomes what I wish, for wishes are for the dreamers still trapped in the dream. In my land, I am the very wind that carries the wish, and in so being, I release the heaviness of the dream itself, and allow the power to be in where I am carried and not in the limiting boundaries of what is gifted. The present is boundless, and yet the gifts are limiting through the process of reasoning itself.
Therefor, I remain twice-removed from where I stand. Present without being present, in a reality that is masked over and over with deception. For I cannot remain in a land without foundation and continue to step whole-heartedly forward. I move instead freely, the wind at my threshold beckoning self-to-self, and reminding me with the echo of now that I am what I am, beyond the reach of the limiting mind.
Belly of a Star 