Unnamed Realm of Belief. (1)

Part 1: ‘Utopia and I’.

For every experience, there is always something to learn (to take in). Perhaps not even the literal content but maybe something more abstract and even slightly out of context, including the idea of being more open minded.

With anything, trust your ‘feelings’/intuition/instinct/soul whilst critically think; be humbly open-minded, I mean how else will you begin to understand the ‘truth’ of anything without accepting the possibility of your own ignorance in everything?

At the end of the day for every person that has come into my realm of awareness, I hope they will keep an open mind and thrive to better themselves.

It is a personal belief of mine that active personal development will led to a utopia of some kind. Whether that may be after the end of humanity or within the time of our existence, that day will come. Because what I have learnt in the numbness of being present in between moments of pain, is that good comes naturally and being cruel, malicious and unkind is a choice.

Though I know what some may say. That it is modern society that has allowed me the luxury of not tasting the morning fog of war, the smell of death or experience the clouded sense of helplessness in face of immense suffering… I understand some may see my beliefs as naive and too optimistic, that I do not see the potential of humanity to do bad as much as good.

So I will admit this, I have never experienced the depths of evil in this world first hand.

But I can also say, this, all of this is my truth because this is what I know. If there is anyone or any experience out there that is willing to tell me differently. I am willing to listen, always, and so should you.

(*”After the end of humanity” refers to another aspect of my belief involving the soul, reincarnation and our origins. I suppose I will write about it… another day, another time…)

 

Advertisements

Unclosed, a chapter.

Between wars.

Floating in a space of fluidity that i had no name for.

I am freed… for now.

No longer bound by a light with its own darkness shadows but also ungrounded by its security – its ineviable fate.

I knew its end before I accepted it. No matter the tragedy and sadness, I knew it well. Drew comfort in a shadow I spoke to often.

It is humorous how we as humans are drawn to things that hurt… amongst other things.

Accept it.
Free yourself.
Be bound by another.

Prehaps that will be another day.

Prehaps a kind of love.

Take Flight.

It is like without wings again. When truth seeks to hide, a piece of myself rots corroding memories and a part of my heart.
They don’t understand because it is the shadows I speak to when all is quiet.
That pain hurts but it seeks us to move away and forward.
That it is love that dwell in my every thought christening my movement across the world.

It is bigger steps than I could imagine. Over mountains of desire, oceans of thought and across the experiences of different worlds.

All the while, those who cry out below and besides my large steps, are those whom my heart resides in. They wail for one who understand but not one who speaks truth.  I can only walk on …

So on my shoulders sits a heavy burden.

They tie their stones to my feet. They seek to bound me in their own prison.

Their cries reach the heavens where my mind hides. It shields my heart as I leave them.

The hands and minds of those few who understand my true purpose are calloused beyond repair. We are bruised. We are victims. We all have brought this upon ourselves, this is our intention.

So throughout this journey to another side we are here, I am not alone. I am not. I am not.

There in which I glance upon the scars left upon my feet, shoulders, back and the tips of my fingers. I hear them coming again as their march as loud as thundering clouds.
I do not fear for I know their love.
I do not quicken my pace for I respect their comfort in ignorance and admire their unwillingness to change.
I will not yield to foretell a truth when they are not ready, for they own sake…
Yet the burden grows heavier. Their cries unyielding, unending, continuous and loud as their heart pleas for lies.

Love is the only gift I can give, one that will become their salvation if they accept it. But they do not understand once again. My love for them angers because it reminds them of their own scars and prisons. Whether it is a mother’s hate, a father’s abandonment, a child’s envy, they have imprisoned themselves rather than that of the past they hold on to.

Yes, for a instant, I had sought forgiveness through solitude. K.C. taught me first to open my eyes to my own lie. There was no forgiveness in forcing a kind of self-punishment and there is no burden greater to carry but the forgiveness I lacked in myself.

It was something they also did not understand. I had forgiven myself long ago, as well as the cruelty they accuse me of.

My pain, sorrow, regret, guilt and love for them showers them in memories I left behind.

At the end of this cycle, whether am I wise or a coward? Kind or cold? Self-aware or arrogant? It is not important.

No one has won and all have lost; we are still present, alive and human.

Who is real? Who is happy?

You exist only if I am in front of you. You can speak if I speak first.

I exist only if you are in front of me. I can speak if you speak first.

This is our story with the one who looks like me.

This is my story. I am ugly.

I look at her one final time before I said goodnight. Pushed off from the mirror and, with a smile, hoped that my life will end tomorrow.

I looked at myself one final time before I said goodnight. Pushed off from the mirror with the hope that tomorrow will be a better day.

The first person is one whom is portrayed to the world, who is more ‘real’ in the sense that she exist because of the simple fact that she seen by others. Her thoughts are first, in the forefront, confident almost arrogant, always smiling. I hoped to portray her as almost perfectly constantly happy. But the very last words portray what she really feels. In actual fact, she is a pessimist and her smile is as fake as her personality. She hates herself basically.

The second person, in actual fact is the real one? Only seen by herself, she exists because she believes she is real. She is oblivious to the first person’s existence or perhaps in some way accepts she is her as well? Maybe she does not see a difference between the first and second person? But then why does she put herself second and behind the mirror? The last comment she makes, shows some kind of optimism that I hope to portray as unexpected, almost contradictive.

Even when in explaining both of them, there are contradictions – statements vs questions.

So, who do you believe is real? Who is more happy with themselves, and with the world?

Inside.

Sometimes you need the heart of a child to just survive.

Naivety and innocence is protected from feigned vulnerability but what if it was not what made us weak but kept us strong, just enough to keep on going. A part of us that never really disappears as we grow but is always instinctively protected by the masks we build.

Like a wall built around our very soul, our mask shields our true self. This is a place we only know of or perhaps few may have touched, nevertheless it is only us to reside in when our mind is quiet.

Though, the child within us is sometimes seen when we drop our guard, laugh too hard, cry too loud, and always curious to experience the deepest of pains and the heights of happiness all over again. You would sometimes wonder if this is who you are – a person who is some kind of masochist to bad memories  a seemingly circle of negative thoughts or some kind of idiot, who ignores all but the high you got off that last thing you smoked or compliment you heard.

This part of ourselves will peer into the world that you are the window to. This child will believe one hundred percent in everything that she sees, even though that window is rose-coloured glass or a thunderstorm drawn in a permanent black marker on its very surface.

So in that sense, your inner child can be quite narrow-minded, stubborn to believe anything else but what it sees.

But sometimes there are things that you will reply nod wholeheartedly with when she says it.

There are things that you will not understand when she says it.

There are things that you definitely know that is not true when she says it.

Sadly, most of the time, you do not hear her cry or yell or whispers what she really thinks.

It is at these times that if you truly listen and understand her, maybe the window that you both did not realise was cleaning would become as clear as when you both first met.

Then instead of looking in, you can begin to look out. To begin to understand what is the truth (at least to you).

Glimpse.

A little girl of hip height peered out from the crack of her bedroom door. The bright sunshine shone brightly that very day through the lace curtains of every window, lighting up the white interior of the hallway and yet she was scared.

She never heard silence before, at least not like this. She always woke to hear the shuffling of footsteps, murmurs of conversations and the occasional laughter of her older brothers – even rarer maybe even mum or a chuckle from dad.  It was usually after these sounds slowly dissipated towards the late nights – when her eyes are heavily with the temptation to close them again for a much needed and undisturbed sleep – that she basked in this moments of silence. For her, it was so comfortable as being wrapped in a warm blanket and being tuck into bed with her favorite rose embroidered handkerchief and a bottle of milk. It lulled her to sleep as she knew that even within the shadows and quiet, she was never alone; the sun (her family) would make it all go away when she woke again.

Yet unlike the other days, for some reason, this day was different. She felt alone in the big house that she called home.

Fallen.

All my days alone, deep in thought of the hatred I have for the world. The injustice, because I was meant to be something more yet I have been dealt the wooden spoon; the unlucky hand.

I threw the cape mother wrapped around me on the wet ground behind me. The very cape she bundled me in when I was left on the doorsteps of a stranger’s home.

When was younger, it was a thousand needles slowly inching deeper and now, an old scar, a dull ache which will never quite disappear. It seems today I have finally snapped, every emotion that I have ignored, every moment I forced my true self to step aside for the sake of another, all the cries of agony came rushing back to this point in time, to this present.

“It is not fair!” I cry out from the depths of a core residing within myself.

Rain drowning out my very presence. My tears seamlessly disappear, thunder drowning my voice, and only when lightning struck will anyone be able to faintly make out a person looking out to the roaring ocean beyond.

The sad thing is that despite this climatic moment, no one will truly ever hear me. As when the rain lifts, it will be morning and no one would know I ever stood at the very edge of the cliff finally telling the world finally how I felt. No one would know.


When is enough, enough? When should I stop running away? When will I ever let go and stop defining who I am by who I was? Will I ever accept this reality I was brought into or will a bitterness for the world be spoken in my last breath?

I know I am forgetting that I am not alone but at this moment, friends and family have no place in my life with the choice I have made to wallow in my own misery.

Pitiful, really.