Sick of Lying to Myself.


Thirtieth of June, 2005.

“I like happiness as much as the next guy, but it’s not happiness that sends one in search of truth. It’s rabid, feverish, clawing madness to stop being a lie, regardless of price, come heaven or hell. This isn’t about higher consciousness or self-discovery or heaven on earth. This is about blood-caked swords and Buddha’s rotting head and self-immolation, and anyone who says otherwise is selling something they don’t have.” – Jed McKenna, Spiritual Enlightenment: The Damnedest Thing, Page: 265.

Afraid to write, because I don’t wish to fill these pages with lies. Everything I write feels so wrong. So, manipulated, so painstaking, so… tense and hungry. There is no ease; the words aren’t rolling out with a naturalness – a contentment. God, I feel such a fool. Damn, I wish I could explain it. All these useless heroics. Right now I feel like who the fuck wants to read about my twisted insane world. How the fuck is any of this spiritual? I haven’t been affected at all. I’m still the lazy ass I always was. In my little fantasy world imagining that I’m breaking new bounds and discovering new things, when, really, all I’m doing is – mind goes fucking blank. And what the fuck am I doing telling people to do what I want to do, but am too afraid to. Can’t tell shit from shit. Comparing one piece of shit to another piece of shit and thinking that I’m doing something amazing. Damn, I can’t even bring myself to feel the raindrops as kisses, my mind wanders so quickly, and here I am romanticising it to everyone I meet. No wonder I can’t explain anything, with such dishonesty. And worst of all, I can’t stand to hear people say, I told you so. Or even worse, to tell me to take it easy. No wonder. I keep fucking telling it to everyone else, so here I am, getting it back tenfold. And with every sentence I write, I’m thinking, “how will this help people?” Fucking shoot that fucking thought.

For the sake of real honesty, I think I’ll keep all this to myself for a while. I can’t believe it took a sixteen year old girl’s self-exploration for me to actually even begin looking myself in the eye. Her words flowed with such openness – with as much acceptance of her anger, her frailty, her twistedness, her romance, her hope, her wings – just acceptance. It was like she was writing with a serene and intense acceptance, almost giggling at herself. And I felt just so… wasted…

And what about me trying to finish off a passage on a positive note, or on a questioning note – fuck that! Fuck how it finishes. She so accepted her twistedness – that’s what truly shook me. I’m constantly trying every trick in the book to deny my twistedness. But reading the sheer purity of her passion shattered a few of the chains I had unwittingly bound myself with. Weird thing is; she was as shaken by my passion for truth as I was by hers. Just fucking weird. So much has been written in denial. It doesn’t matter if it’s also been written with an acceptance – I’ve just had it with that logic. And I’ve especially had it with checking the net every ten minutes to see if what I’ve posted has inspired people or not. Goddamnit. I can’t even trust myself enough to not do it.

I was vehement on sticking to the truths. So here I was trying so very hard to make sure that I wasn’t saying twisted things – ending up a big mess. Oh, and here I am feeling so fat, and trying to breathe right to release tension – cause I know it’s the tension that’s making me fat. But you know what, it’s like I just won’t let myself breathe. I just can’t – or won’t – I don’t know – let myself breathe. It’s mostly like a half-held breath. Or a hard breath. Like I’m trying my hardest to hold it all in, no matter what. Like I’m just too shit scared to let go. Like I am so twisted, that deep down, I’m just trying my hardest to fail. Damn, I feel so humbled, so… idiotic, when I see people who accept their faults with a good laugh. It is so very very easy to fool yourself.

“A further reason to hold tight to your actual experiences and feelings to avoid the clichés that lurk everywhere waiting to entrap you and your characters. As soon as you take one step away from your actual life, your work is in danger of turning into a cartoon or a soap opera. It’s easy for Spielberg to slide into sentimental pieties when he presents what other people, in another country, felt and suffered fifty years ago. What would keep him honest would be to show what he himself actually feels like when he goes to lunch to close a big deal, or how he treats his wife and children that evening if it falls through. The Hemmingway-parented bullshit detector is that much more sensitive if your characters and situations are close to your own life. It’s just too easy to fool yourself, to cheat of exaggerate for effect, if your movie takes place in a galaxy far away. Make sure there is no “them” in your movie. It should be all “you.” Make sure you are as kind to your characters (or as hard on them) as you would be on yourself. Make sure they are as interesting and complex (and self-justifyingly self-deluded) as you are. Let them never think they are doing anything wrong, just as you never do.” – Ray Carney, Film Critic and Visionary.

But it just doesn’t make sense. One moment I am heartily laughing at everything about me – the next moment I am angry about it. One moment my joy is total, the next moment my anger is overwhelming. It’s like, isn’t this how forgiveness is supposed to work? You forgive yourself, and afterwards, it shouldn’t affect you. Which has me looking under every nook and cranny, wondering if there is something about me I haven’t forgiven – always concluding it’s this that or the other. Then I’m meeting people constantly who are laughing at themselves in a healthy acceptance, and yet a part of them is so insensitive and inconsiderate – and the contradiction is just too goddamn confusing. This is supposed to be simple. Do this, this happens. Simple. Easy. Simple. True.

Well, fuck. This is why I’m always shutting myself away from people. I’m surrounded by insensitive fuckers. Twisted. Again. So that’s why I must be hiding myself behind fascinating paradoxes and mysterious metaphors. To keep all the insensitivity away. For fear of sounding flaky, like if I spoke simply about what I love, it would be judged as unrealistic. So I fry people’s brains, in a frustrated attempt to make them see, there is so very much you don’t know – so why are you judging? Twisted, twisted. I don’t know where it begins and where it ends. Unfounded fears.

If only it were that easy! Urgh! I don’t know what to do about insensitivity. I keep thinking, “Stop telling me to fucking chill! Cause if you are so wise, surely you are intuitive enough to be able to say it without sounding like a goddamn textbook. Like it’s a cool idea you read somewhere, and you think it applies in this case, so you’ll slot it in – with maybe a dose of humour to boot, just to make it sound like it’s something you practice yourself. And maybe, just maybe, ok, yes you are content, and I am not. But if the only thing what you say does is rub salt in the wound, maybe you are not as content as you think. You don’t have to fucking stroke my ego, I ain’t asking for it. Just a bit of uniqueness – a bit of spark – of life – on your part – as an example of the contentment you are asking me to share. Roasted words don’t do shit. What are you going to do? Write me off as a troubled man and convince yourself that doing something like that makes you that much more different to me? Maybe I’m just saying what you are afraid to say. Damn if we all worked off each other’s honesty, there could be so much more progress.”

Ok, so I have quite masterfully – or, fine fine, have it your way, maybe even whoreishly – shut everyone out. What now? Yeah, I’ve probably done it more than most, and why is that? Everyone else I see only shut some people out, and keep others close. I’m mercilessly taking the ‘all or nothing’ scorpion trait to its completion. It doesn’t make sense. Not like I got raped, or molested. So, why am I being so intense about this? Sometimes I reason that it must be because this is my last life. Maybe everything is just so much more – prominently acted out – when you’ve been there, done that. But no, that ain’t it. Doesn’t matter. What now?

Now I know why people keep their very very private journal private. There is a strange contentment in being able to speak your mind without worrying about prying eyes. But it’s stranger… knowing others are going to read this now, I don’t feel so scared. Maybe because… nothing really compares to pouring your heart out. It somehow takes precedence over publicy or privacy.

“…you are no more of a physical personality than I am, and in telling you of my reality I tell you of your own.” — Seth.

The rain has been reminding me all day: stop running away. Stop running so hard. I let it wet my feet and drape my face and try to imagine it as kisses. But only for a moment, before I get… bored. Urgh! Wow would ya look at that. I finally write something really true to the meaning of unveiling, and I no longer care what people have to say about it. Maybe that’s all it takes. I just wish my writing was freed. The damn thing still seems to be on a tight leash. Oh, and look, this is weirder. I finish writing all this about being closed off, find myself relieved and in a serene mood, and two old friends message me out of the blue telling me they just wanted to give me love and kisses. I ask one of them why, and she replies, “Because you are who you are. Because of who you make/have made me since I got back in touch with you.”
“What have I made you?” I asked.
“You opened my eyes to what I really am. What I really can be. And that my gut instincts are always correct. I didn’t believe you at first but now I do. You made me realise that I have a source of strength within me that I never knew existed. You also woke me up from a deep slumber I was in.”

Weird. The other girl messaged me to tell me she has always loved me. I didn’t ask her why. And all it took was a few hours of pouring my heart out on paper… and it seems to have a conscious-psychic effect on the people around me? Such is synchronicity. And both these testaments of love came to me just when I no longer needed to hear them. That’s what’s so amazing. As the saying goes, you only get what you want when you no longer crave it. Now imagine if I’d given up and not written anything at all. Do you see why nothing is coincidence? Why those two people who came to kiss me… were bringing kisses from the Goddess. Because I didn’t give up.

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~ by revolutionwithin on February 27, 2010.

2 Responses to “Sick of Lying to Myself.”

  1. Hi Just read this page – very passionate writing… perhaps it’s just better to let your conscious mind take over and set you on the middle path?

    Perhaps people don’t have the language to voice what they felt and hence the soft messages? But you are right we don’t know enough about people to really console them/enlighten them with our own perspectives…

    Take care

  2. Im glad you didnt keep this to yourself. Im the type of person who likes reading memoirs. I like to read about other people. I think I just want to find that I have some connection with somebody, for I hate knowing I’m an individual. Also, I like reading about other people because when I do find that ‘connection’ ive been looking for, it points out the words I’ve been looking for to explain the way I am, or the way I’m feeling.

    “But you know what, it’s like I just won’t let myself breathe. I just can’t – or won’t – I don’t know – let myself breathe. It’s mostly like a half-held breath. Or a hard breath. Like I’m trying my hardest to hold it all in, no matter what. Like I’m just too shit scared to let go.Like I am so twisted, that deep down, I’m just trying my hardest to fail”

    I know exactly how you feel.

    “I’m mercilessly taking the ‘all or nothing’ scorpion trait to its completion. It doesn’t make sense. Not like I got raped, or molested. So, why am I being so intense about this?”

    I find it kind of funny when you realize that there are people out there who feel how you feel or do the same things you do. These are the moments in your life when you realize your not the only freak in the world, that maybe your not so much of a mental case after all. I find these moments to comes as a relief.
    I love poetry, and I dont know if you realize it but I find a lot of the things you have said to be very poetic.

    Keep writing.

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