The sense of separation is the seed of it and fear is the fruit of it. You’ll see through it by seeing it through.
As the ego is crumbling away a sense of solitude escalates. The illusion turns even more vivid and poor little me feels totally isolated, unappreciated, misunderstood, abandoned, misjudged, lonely and separate.
—If they only saw what I can see. If they only had the wherewithal to look within like I do. Etc.
The truth doesn’t hurt. The truth never hurts. What hurts is that there is nothing in it for me. The truth won’t validate or cater for me in any way whatsoever.
The price of the truth is the loss of the illusion of me (in the truth vis-a-vis youse).
It ain’t easy and it ain’t pleasant. I stands to lose every thing and every body.
Melancholy is a great way to bypass the truth (of the moment): Feels so good to wallow in self-pity and to feel the me being dissed, pissed, frustrated, misunderstood, abandoned, disturbed, annoyed, perturbed, inconvenienced and other ways victimized by fortuitous circumstances—jilted by girls, misjudged by other egos, bothered by noisy neighbours and enervating nocturnal emissions, etc.—it keeps everything deeply personal. It keeps the world revolve around me.
Without struggling and constant frustration nothing else remains but this moment, constantly, that turns on a dime, instantly—no guarantees, no hope, no prospects, nothing, really.
As an ego am used to routinely playing the game of putting myself in the position of being chosen and hailed by circumstances and people so I get to defy the potentially undesired consequences without me being responsible for creating them. I is a perfect perfectionist.
What hurts me is not that I’ve lost her but that I am losing the image I’ve cherished about her.
It’s painful to see this because it means that I am losing the image I’ve cherished about myself too.
Without the hope (the projected image) of getting her back there is noone to suffer for and there is noone to suffer.
A couple of hours ago I sat down to relax and to see (more clearly the truth of my current situation) and what I saw after 2 hours of squirming and restlessly turning was that what, in effect, I sat down with was an agenda to see. It took me around 2 hours to opt for the truth over the self-induced fit of confusion and frustration. My mind kept flashing images from the past and the potential future to which my body responded in kind and the I felt eager to go into the texture of these sensations to let them resolve themselves. I wanted to spend the time productively and do some healing. Yet again, I sat down to resolve and transcend the internal mess that defines feeble, fallible me. In other words, I didn’t sit down to relax initially, I sat down to struggle rather. Much like in writing these posts where usually there is a hidden agenda that sparks the intent to engage in articulating them—namely the agenda to get past and transcend the weaker version of myself by sharing and thus taking ownership of it—more often than not meditation is abused to the same narcissistic end.
/I wonder, though, if I am still around and decided on a whim to reread these posts in 10+ years from now how will I relate to them? Will I feel embarrassed? Or amused? Or fascinated? Or puzzled? I have no idea. Probably, for better or for worse, I’ll have much less free time on my hands to indulge in chasing my elusive tail like this. Probably the concept of ’transcending me mess’ won’t make much sense either by that time. Who knows. I’ll report back, I guess. But then, all I’m doing here is playing the game of the truth and this is where it’s at right now.