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.
I love wallowing in blue bouts of self-pity. I love melancholy. Because it feels reassuring, to put it tersely. Self-pity is but a way of re-assuring the cherished idea that I have about meself. Fact of the matter is: the bittersweet blue molasses of melancholy and the overall sluggishness that accompanies it feels so deeply soothing precisely because that is my preferred way of maintaining a sense of separateness. Others have other ways of dismissing the truth [of our being] I happen to be choosing the sweet asphyxiating molasses of melancholy. To be honest, though, I’ve always thought that my melancholy was in fact the truth in the guise of a bit sad but still small voice—until the recent recognition that for the most part it’s merely my ego’s way of re-assuring itself and its sense of separateness. I saw at once that I’m heavily addicted to it too. When the going gets tough the compulsion to scamper back into its insulating confinement and then allow my harried self to mellow the duck out feels quite overwhelming at times. Once there, I’m on cloud 9, no doubt. The outside of it does feel unsafe but on the flip side the inside of it feels cosy and refreshingly familiar—I loves the sense of being taken back there, no matter the depth of isolation.
Until I drop my fascination and fixation on them: the insights [I share on this blog] will keep coming—ebbing and flowing—because rather than embodying & becoming the ground from whence they issue I’ll keep a distance and be a mediator instead. And of course, as anyone in their right mind, I’ll always prefer being a mediator because that way I gets to keep a sense of specialness & separateness alive.