The process of harmonization goes hand in hand with the development of sensitivity. If you start listening, for instance, to the nutritional needs and (pseudo)allergic reactions of your body you’ll inevitably become more sensitive to foods. The body is a powerful probe. Use it with ease. Or else… you’ll miss the mark. (As in: alignment gone awry. Srsly.)
There are the faces around that we all are, faces, already fading, about to be forgotten faces, blooming, withering and vanishing sea waves of faces, my face and your face to be lost sooner or later we are to lose no matter how hard we try to save it on facebook, from humiliation and utter oblivion, always already fading from the face of the Earth, every single face you ever face faces to be replaced, by other faces, as our faces have replaced the faces flowering before us, under the sun, nothing special,
Do you see?
Do you see them now?
Do you feel the love you actually feel for all of them? The faces up the streets, in the shops, in the parks and on the trams. The faces at work and the faces at home. The faces from the past, opposite, behind and next to yours, the newborn faces. Out and about. Take a look. Variations on a theme. Beneath all these faces we all share the same essence. Underneath the myriad faces there is only one sameone there.
nothing stays, on the face of it
What remains, in the end, nothing else remains but awareness, of this moment, above and in front of all the toyful joys and the soulfull sorrows of the person who is losing everybody and everything, slowly and surely, all that it—as an I—has ever attained or missed and all that it has ever grown fond of and loved, sooner or later, falls away, and then the truth meets the truth… this heart is breaking and oozing gooey pain at the thought of my parents fading, at the thought of an ex and the countless unpursued prospects blending into the impersonal mass of the female flesh I’m so mesmerized by day by day: nothing remains that I could hold on to, nothing that I can grasp, nobody, noone, nothing to fixate on, nothing that fix(at)es, nothing that grounds me, nothing to write about really, all the writing blurs into noise, another iteration of the same old, same old, everything pixelates, with me in the middle of it all, alive, a heart, ready to burst, or stop, almost, for real, and it’s beating on, for it’s only the mind that is blown away by the overwhelm called truth
The ego is an algorithm that is programmed to enact a catch 22 type loop wherein what it posits as desirable is rendered, by the same token, unattainable. Its function is to split the mind [so, evolutionarily, it becomes anxious enough to seek improving itself] and (ir)rationalize everything according to its agenda. That’s the reason why it wants to be seen by hiding and wants to prove itself by holding back—it’s totally illogical no matter how obsessively analytical it gets /as it’s so conspicuously borne & spelled out in my previous confessional posts/.
I feels cheated. I feels unfairly dealt & treated. I thinks I merit more and deserve better because I put in more effort and I sacrifice much more. They [socially inept flatmates] spend almost all their time sitting and lying in front of a computer screen, get up around noon, eat all sorts of random stuff and still have bowel movement at least twice a day while here I am ’struggling’ to produce something at intervals of 32 hours at the very best. And yet, unlike valiant, noble me, they haven’t paid their spiritual dues, none whatsoever.
Overall, I feel directionless and a bit confused as well as pretty clueless and deflated and dejected and misjudged and misunderstood and so on. In short, I feel unsure. And so does my body. Constipation reflects a systemic ’uncertainty’ or hesitation in/of the bodymind—It’s a loop, no doubt.
It’s a matter of looseness, really, of the willingness to lose face, status, respect, approval, admiration, support and sympathy. To effectively deconstipate I must go loose, all the way. I gotta go with the truth, not me. Till I go with the image I cherish about meself I’ll hold back around the edges of that image and till I hold back, life holds back. There is no two ways about this and there is only one way to find out about it.
The fact that I have put so much effort into resolving [systemic] constipation may be one step forward but it might at the same time be two steps back as well in that I get more and more frustrated over failing at resolving it. The thing to keep in mind is that it’s not something personal, as it never has been, but more like an unfolding of an ’inherited’ trajectory.
But what a perfect trigger this is. You have no idea. Few things rattle me in (social) life and I rarely if ever feel envious let alone outright agitated by what others have going on for them. But this just takes the cake, my friends: Right on cue, my flatmate has just flushed an effortless fruit of the loo as I’m writing these very lines. The second time today and it’s only 4 pm for duck’s sake. He got up at noon and dropped a slick one right after his morning tea and now after a couple of hours of his late lunch he decided to toy with my poise anew. Man, what else is a deconstipator to feel but destroyed by flatmates like this. 😉
Me am-ego is at it again: spinning the melodramatic yarn, spinning the wheel—arguing with what is. But it’s OK. I ma proceed & let it have it (s)way once again—No problem.
The more I (try not to) fixate on resolving something: the more I end up enacting it. It’s a bitch.
Wanting to transcend the struggling self as a self—having the cake and eating it too—is a bit like being that little frog in midstream with the scorpion on its back. Try as hard as you might: with your self on your back you will never cross the river of consciousness.