I am a book covered with blackness, scars and mysteries. I just hope for people to judge me by my cover. I don’t want them to read into me and see the fragile heart I am.
I am a pile of ideas, a pile of dreams, a pile of plans, a pile of doubts, and so many other things. I am a pile of piles and it is so overwhelming. Should I get rid of some piles? Should I climb them? Or should I just give up and hide inside them?
For a long time, I thought I needed others to ameliorate the weaknesses I saw in myself; that doesn’t work - not for long anyway. It’s nice to have support, although, more often than not, I found it to gradually develop into a kind of crutch. Nevertheless, people have contributed to my life in ways that inspired me to become a better person - I’ve certainly learned a lot from others - ultimately, though, the responsibility towards self-betterment has always been placed solely in my hands; no matter how much guidance, thought and action are always needed on my behalf to reach the next tier. Through experience, I’ve found that I can only manifest lasting inner shifts within myself once, and only once, I’ve made a commitment to understanding the particular brand of darkness in my soul that seems to be holding me back. More often than not, once I’ve faced the demon head on - once I’ve placed my psyche in front of the reflecting pool - I can clearly see it for what it is: stripped of ancillary detail, it’s nearly always a form of insecurity masquerading and manifesting as perceived necessary action on my behalf, in the pursuit of the attainment of some desire, in which - upon receiving - is thought to be capable of quelling some void felt within.
Seek to be whole and I’ll never be; come into the awareness of already being complete and just keep blossoming from within.
I am half child, half ancient.
Be conscious first of thyself within, then think and act. All living thought is a world in preparation; all real act is a thought manifested. The material world exists because an idea began to play in divine self–consciousness.
Lose your ego, find your self.
There’s the story, then there’s the real story, then there’s the story of how the story came to be told. Then there’s what you leave out of the story. Which is part of the story too.
Control thy passions lest they take vengeance on thee.
When did we become so small and so apologetic? Why do we apologize for our humanity? Love what you love, and make no apologies. This is your identity. The most horrendous suspensions of freedom are self-imposed. We imprison ourselves daily, hourly.
We have one life, one shot at all the glorious things of life, and we walk about constricted, apologetic, afraid. We have so little time; we have so little space upon which to spread our love and our talents and our kindness. Run toward life fulsomely and freely.
It runs from us so quickly, like a frightened dog or youth or daylight. Chase it and care for it.
Of course art should be about something big. Something terribly big must be at stake. I don’t see this anymore. Our art is becoming terribly polite and apologetic, much like us. It slinks away like a sagging breast, empty of milk or promise or comfort.
We need to get very fervent again. We need to get jacked up.
You could think of mindfulness as wise and affectionate attention.
One of the most common ways of not acknowledging our faults is to blame others.