Methinks

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.

 

Only by losing (the image of) it do I actually see it for what it is

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.

faces in space

go for a walk and enter a random school building
take a look at old group photographs of students of different classes on the wall
and meditate a bit
slow down
feel,
any random face you pick
imagine, picture in your mind their life
feel into their life
enter their frame
assume their space
think of their little triumphs and struggles
think of broken relationships, of abandoned projects and hobbies
see them running their errands
re-member their arrivals & their departures
re-member their unvoiced hurts & their unexpressed love
growing old,
passing..

remember

then pick another face
do the same

the people these people were surrounded with
you will never know
and the people you have come into contact with over the years
they will never know

the big things in your life
do not exist for them
the big things of their life
do not exist for you

in the big scheme
we ain’t special
we don’t matter
it’s just our life

mundane

the one who abandoned you

who are they in the big scheme of things
they will disappear too
like grains of sand, yes

whoever you desire or admire
random too

we are all passing
we are passing through

none of it matters

we are humans

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be humble
live simple
give as much space as humanly possible
the rest will take care of itself

beyond face

as a spiritual practice
i look at people on the street as if i was looking at myself

i remind myself that
we share our essence

i look at them and say to myself:
he is me,
she is me
in a different form

the same fabric
a different pattern

the same space
a different angle

i could be them
i could be anybody
it’s
the same feelings of comfort & discomfort
the same self-deluding bs

the same motion
with different associations