Flair

In the past I’ve held the tacit belief that everyone should be like the person I intended to be: someone dedicated to the truth and oriented towards insights, someone emotionally motivated by the excitement of seeing [recurring] patterns and living a deadbeat lifestyle geared towards facilitating this seeing. I wanted to become the ’’transparent eyeball’’ and over the years—in keeping with this aim—everything I was doing turned out to be devoted to keeping a loose, en-lightened frequency of being in good repair—I ended up being a ’frequency holder’ of sorts, responsible for upkeeping, upregulating and bringing a subtler vibration of energy to bear on my dealings with others. Also,  I’ve become obsessed with sharing the treasure of insights I’ve been graced to stumble upon by packaging them in neat wording. I believe in heart-felt wisdom that is borne of transparency and that results in efficacy of being. This is what drives me essentially. The fact that most of my life I’ve felt guilt-ridden about my half-hearted dealings with others as a consequence of this obsession is simply beyond absurd. At long last I realize that I need not take others’ tastes & preferences personally and that I am not responsible for justifying mine any more than others are responsible for justifying theirs. We differ. What makes me tick makes many diss me, and vice versa. We truly are a multifarious bunch in terms of style, rhythm, values, motivations, etc., and this is perfectly OK.

 

 

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but ONE

You say that you’re heartbroken over ’’moving on’’ because you’ve grown truly fond of the forms—the places, the faces—you’ve encountered. But let’s be honest: do  you get as attached to plants too? Do you feel dejected when you see a blooming flower in April and think about the fleeting nature of your encounter?—Now, is this a silly comparison? Why? What is the extent of the difference? Isn’t it but all about forms? forms that you can appreciate for their unique flair or fail to do so. One thing’s for sure, we go easy on the plants because they cannot engage in our drama, but when it comes to people we turn into weird, needy little desperate Gollums clinging, grasping, claiming and demanding—no matter how passively—we proceed, in effect, to project the love that we are onto their form—their peculiar face and their bodily rhythms, gestures, postures and style of engaging—because we expect them to be someone for us so we can get to be someone for them.

Someone but One.