Change. 

Ramblings.

The key to change is when we are most uncomfortable within our circumstances. The key to growth is change. This cannot be achieved without challenge. Challenge is achieved through change. It’s like a wretched triangle. Wretched; yet utterly necessary. 

If we cannot grow, we cannot understand. Without understanding, we are ignorant. And yes, ignorance can most certainly be bliss- until an unexpected happening is hurled towards us and we cannot understand it because we have never tried to acknowledge its existence before. 

However, one does not need to trawl through the muddy circumstances of each problem we may find in life in order to find this apparent necessary clarity. We can experience one great heartache that awakens our existence into a painful sense of being, and this can be enough to shake us into a state of knowing. What is this ‘knowing’? It is a greater understanding of humanity: humanity, being namely – humans. How we operate as this strange and alien race. I use the word ‘alien’, because an indescribable amount of years have passed by before the human race sprung into existence, and we actually have no true knowledge of the creatures before us that belonged to this planet. 

We are a race that defies the laws of the earth: we hurt it, we destroy it, we sabotage it, we take advantage of it with false belief that it is abundantly self-replenished. We are aliens because we do not take life into our capable hands, and make it beautiful. We do not give back to the land that sustains our very existence. I speak of growth before – growth is integral to understanding how we are actually aliens on this planet. If we truly belonged, we would not hurt it and its inhabitants, be it human/plant/animal, etc. I think it’s exceptionally sad that we, as humans, are partial to being ignorant about how we are truly supposed to exist. The earth does not have endless resources, and we are destroying it day by day, night by night. It’s just like our very own constitution. We are not made up of endless resources, yet we push ourselves to be ‘accomplished’, ‘successful’, and ‘evolved’. 

These are merely words to describe societal doctrines that we have been conditioned to believe are the correct way of living. Money is artificial. That’s the beginning and end of it. We live according to a false decree of being. We are sheep, herded by the few morons we ourselves have placed into power. We ourselves decreed them to be most capable of handling OUR lives. What basal nonsense is this? Do we really still have to live in a patriarchal, minority-dominated society? And the answer is: Yes. People are not capable of avoiding chaos. People are not capable of applying morality and principality to their own lives. We are a race of destruction; of ambition to destroy, and whence own. It’s actually laughable. 

This war for power – it defeats the entire point of life. We are not destined to fight, we are not destined to kill and destroy. We are here to GROW. We are here to ascend as spiritual beings, not debase ourselves as eternal intrinsic Neanderthals. The purpose of life has been so twisted by fallacies of ‘earthly’ goals, whilst the true earthly goals have been abandoned. Life is not meant to be so difficult: Depression and anxiety reign supreme as we exhaust ourselves running on an invisible treadmill, trying to reach the proverbial carrot. We are actually pretty pathetic. We have complicated the essence of life into ghastly untruths. 

Love. Peace. Kindness. 

Those are the values we should be dedicating our lives to. Instead, we chase after money, which as I mentioned, is not even real. We have forgotten what is real. And if we have not forgotten, then we certainly ignore it and push it aside like we do with all our other existential crises. 
All we need to do is return to the basics. Live simply; live lovingly. There is nothing wrong with morphing into a kind and peaceful being, instead of a power-hungry beast and slave to society. Society isn’t even real. What’s really real then? YOU. You are real. Do good with this fact. 

Imminence. 

Ramblings.

Sometimes I can’t stop writing. 

It’s as though the words are at war with each other in my head, about who gets to ‘get out’ first- this is difficult, because structuring sentences in between these flurries of fighting words, is quite the task. 

I just got into bed. It’s quite chilly tonight- unusual for the usual South African climate. My toes are icy cold compared to the rest of my snug body. It’s such an inexplicable feeling, though- the cool surface of my feet reassures me that I am not a robot; that I am in fact a human being (a fact I often have to contest with myself to ensure its validity). The simple sensation of cool toes is overwhelming me.

How can we so easily forget about the simplicities that bring us joy? How can we so easily shrug aside, and take for granted, the little facets of life that bring subconscious grins to our otherwise grim faces? There is so much to be appreciative of in life. Life. The strangest concept to ever exist. How can we be gifted with the present of living, but it is imminent to have that very gift taken away from us, and us taken out of the present? 

Life is so very, very misinterpreted. I am not claiming that I know the answers (if there even are any), but I am claiming to know that we do not actually know what we in fact need to know: Life is the beginning of the end. This is, of course, assuming that reincarnation is a fallacy that we grip onto to dispute finite mortality. But if we are to look at the very essence of life- everything begins, exists, and then dies. 

Now: What we do during the exist phase, is integral to our true purpose. Do we even have a true purpose, you might ask, if we just die at the end of the day? Well, yes. We all have something we need to achieve within our lifetime in order for us to feel as though we can finally rest when the time comes. I’m not actually sure how much heed I can pay to my own theory. I’m filled with contradicting hypotheses about where we go after we die- perhaps a rich and colourfully vivacious cosmos, where the stars welcome us home and sparkle merrily  at our return. Ha! Idealistic? Mayhap. But how sensational would that actually be? 

This is where it gets tricky: We have earthly ties. We are bound to the ground. We want to possess things. We want to possess people. We want to have, have, have. What do we actually do with all this stuff once we pass on? Give it to our offspring? To gain sentimental value? How on earth did we reach the point where an ordinary cupboard is deemed to be an important and sentimental artifact, passed down from our ancestors generations back? Why does stuff possess more significance than the poetry of life that people leave behind? 

When I speak about ‘poetry of life’, it is naturally a metaphor. But I also believe it can be transformed into a practical interpretation. Think about it: We all leave behind some form of footprint in other people’s lives. This footprint, and the accompanying emotions and circumstances attached to it, are of your design. Your footsteps flow like poetry: Verses and lines and rhymes (decisions and choices and mistakes) that people can often not make sense of, as they are so subjectively articulated. But there is beautiful construction within the strings of words, and hence array of footprints, that are left behind. 

Life is thus: The opportunity to write the most exquisite poem; the opportunity to leave behind an extraordinary array of footprints. Yet- and this is important- footprints get washed away, and poetry fades over time. 

– The memory of you will be lost and forgotten –

And that’s ok- you were just what the world needed at that time. 

M

x

Postmortem.

Ramblings.

We’ve all had relationship troubles. Well, for the most part of the population. Some people have been lucky enough to have smooth sailing (what the actual…), but most of us have had difficulties with someone we love. The purpose of this post is not to exasperate the topic of heartbreak- there are enough poems/songs/novels about the intricacies and pains of a broken heart.

This is more about a relationship postmortem. And most certainly not a case of, ‘What did I do wrong?’, as we are prone to ask- we always think we are the catalyst of detriment to our relationships because we are so ‘damaged’. No. No, no, and no! I refuse to take the blame for someone else’s inability to love me the way I deserve to be loved. We all have issues. We all have voids that we feel need filling in some way (and generally we reach out to a romantic partner as we have a huge misconception that they are the answer). No! I am adamant about this: Love is not poetry. Love is not a catchy song. Love is not a captivating novel. Love is a teacher. 

We love in order to learn. And more importantly, to learn about ourselves. We do not love to learn about the idiosyncrasies of another person- that’s lust; that’s obsession. That’s a craving to know that person inside out because we think in some weird and twisted way that that is where we will find ourselves. Again I declare, No! We learn about ourselves through loving someone else. Through learning how to love. Because loving is not about making someone else happy. I’ve discussed this before: Who on earth determined when we were born, that our set purpose is to make other people happy? Nein. I even had to go German on that one. 

Relationships need postmortems for us to learn about how certain people might just not possess amicable/symbiotic qualities that enhance our personal beings. It’s a selfish concept, but what really matters at the end of the day? Your happiness. Your wellbeing. That is what matters. So through giving a relationship that has ended a little bit of a dissection to see why and how things worked, is a really valuable way to see why things didn’t work. 

A dead relationship is a bit like a dead body- morbid analogy, perhaps, but crucial in making a link to understanding that the life of the relationship is over. There is no point in trying to revive it. It can be respected, sure; it can be revered in memory, but it cannot be brought back to life. It’s called a ‘break-up’ because it is broken. For people who do manage to revive a relationship- I truly believe it will never be the same again. There will always be the scar from the initial cause of leaving each other. ‘True love’, yadda yadda, blah blah… Yes: I am a pessimist when it comes to love. Perhaps more of a pragmatic realist (and even contrarily, of course, a hopeless romantic deep down), but I honestly believe that when it is meant to work, it will- without having to go to the ends of the earth to achieve a loving, peaceful, fulfilling relationship with someone. 

I think the most important thing I’ve learned about love, is that it is an ever constant caterpillar; we always try to make it reach a state of metamorphosis into this notion we have of a glorious and perfect butterfly… But love; well it’s quite happy to stay in its caterpillar form. It’s quite happy to be simple, and grounded. Wings give us the potential to fly, sure. Butterflies are beautiful, sure. But touch their wings, and they die. Surely thus, we’d prefer to be the hardy caterpillar? Yes, there lies great potential within the caterpillar to become said magnificent butterfly… But it is too precious to be touched. It is too lovely in its absolute form, and thus it is better for us to revere the fact that the caterpillar is just as beautiful, due to the mere fact that without it, the butterfly would never exist. 

Whilst it is important to understand why you and a partner didn’t work out, in order to learn more about yourself, it can become an obsession. Ultimately- trying to analyse every single detail of why a relationship didn’t work, is not advisable. This will keep one stagnant, and unable to even think about moving on and reaching our ultimate goal of metamorphosis, where we meet someone who will not touch our wings, but allow us to survive as a beautiful butterfly for as long as possible. 

M

x

Socially Awkward. 

Ramblings.

As I have mentioned before, I’m a bit of a contradiction. So when I say I’m an awkward social butterfly, it makes total sense. 

I try pretty hard to make friends with people. To be friendly, essentially. But my face betrays my emotions, as I will often find myself grimacing at someone who is behaving in a way that I feel is strange. Again- a contradiction, because I am an avid supporter of rebelling against social doctrines. However, I can feel my face contorting into a state of judgement, and when the person in said judgement state looks at me pulling said face, I feel awful, and then overcompensate to be friendly towards them. 

It’s actually a bit of a conundrum. I have tons of friends – close and by association. Making new friends is not a problem for me. But, these face pulling moments make me cringe inside. I often berate myself for being a ‘judgey’ person. I don’t mean to pull faces. I just find it insatiably difficult to control my expressions. Perhaps it is because I did Eisteddfod for years- I am a natural expressionist. Also, to some extent, a natural drama queen (this is subjective, in my opinion, and not from my stance- just to clarify). 

I’ve also been wondering if it’s a case of a superiority complex, or a case of extreme insecurity. Again- like my bipolar- everything is in extreme polarity. What is actually real? I don’t understand myself when I’m placed in these situations of interaction. I become someone else: Either a charming, funny, likable socialite; or a reclusive, judgemental, stay-away-from-me prude. 

To be honest, I feel like I have some weird form of sociopathy mixed with social anxiety (I know- paradox of note). I love making friends, but the process is sometimes confusing. It’s odd.

There was an incident that happened quite recently, and albeit that I was a bit rude, I felt crazily empowered: A guy was annoying me at a club- dancing up against me and reiterating to me how single he is- and I literally said to him, ‘Dude, you’re irritating me’, and he put his hands up in what I interpreted as resignation, and walked away. This was an important milestone that I achieved in my life, as I have been far too accommodating over the years. I’ve ended up in relationships that I didn’t even want, simply because I didn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings. Later down the line, these relationships have screwed me up into the 4th dimension, indicating that you shouldn’t go for something unless your heart is in from the start (it even rhymes, it must be providence). 

I think my point here (as it seems my posts always end in a point) is that one should always be oneself in the exact moment. Mindfulness is real. It’s easy to distinguish between who you should be making actual friends with, and who you should just respect from a distance as a form of common courtesy. It’s all about balance. Nothing needs to be so in extreme- I need to convince myself that I don’t need to be friends with absolutely everybody. It’s so overwhelming and draining to please the relentlessly demanding world. So if you are somewhat like me, I recommend to just chill in social situations (preaching to the choir- myself being the choir). It’s just easier to be yourself, as authentically as possible. 

M

x

Bipolar Roller.

Ramblings.

So, I mentioned in a previous post that I am Bipolar, amongst other ‘disorders’.

Now, this post is not going to be entirely coherent in terms of what I actually want to do about this fact, so bear with me (I seem to ask this of you often).

I am a wildly esoteric person. I always have been- I remember thinking that I was in a fairy garden when I was 6; that there were mermaids in my pool when I was 9; and I started talking to celestial entities when I was 12. Please, don’t shrug esoterica off as hippie mumbo-jumbo. I am 6 exams away from a degree in Psychology, so I am not ignorant about the cognitive and subconscious layers of the mind. I also have a degree in Fashion (with majors in Buying, Business, and Media), thus I am not all about traveling on hills upon which mountain goats wander (although, this is a personal goal of mine). I am not irrational. In fact, I am extremely cynical about my belief system; it keeps me grounded whilst my soul wanders off into the cosmos.

How does this relate to my Bipolar? Directly.

An exquisite theory was explained to me by my wonderful psychologist: As a Bipolar person, the esoteric interpretation thereof is that I am in polarity to everything. This includes the Earth, and the Universe. I am stuck in limbo between the stars and the ground. So the highest point of the Universe (of which, as far as we know, is infinite), and the core point of the Earth (of which we know is finite), are the two places between which I am caught in a system of extremes.

If I am sad, I am extremely sad. In fact, I think the word ‘sad’ is of similar value to the word ‘nice’- it just doesn’t cut it as an appropriate adjective, and is jaded in its meaning. What I feel when I’m ‘sad’, is endless despair. Like I am stuck in a vortex of hopelessness; like the abyss couldn’t possibly get any bigger and deeper than it already is; like it couldn’t consume me any more than it already has. As though the light has been sucked out of everything and anything, and the world is playing a cruel joke on me. Hell, when I’m ‘sad’, is on Earth.

And then, there occurs the greatest juxtaposition possible: I experience euphoria (now isn’t that so much ‘nicer’ than ‘sad’? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink…). Euphoria is: Pure bliss that engulfs me like a cool wave on a boiling hot Summer’s day. It blankets me and shields me from feeling anything remotely negative. It makes me feel invincible; like I could be a prophet, or a magician, or an esteemed philosopher. Or perhaps even, as my greatest dream goes, a famous singer (albeit that fame scares the living daylights out of me). Ultimately, when I am manic, I can achieve anything (hypothetically).

Now, what scares me, is that I cannot trust either state of extremity. I cannot trust that either episode, be it depression or mania, will stay. I know that it will leave me. It’s almost as though I have abandonment issues with both of my episodes- as though they are a father figure to me, one that I know I cannot rely on to always be constant in my life; one whom I know will eventually leave me because there are more important people in his life (yes, I have daddy issues, but that is for another day). When I am manic, I don’t want it to go away. I am ecstatic when I am manic, as I know I will feel like I can conquer it all. When I am depressed, all I want for it is to go away. I feel like it detracts from my ‘true’ self; this ‘true’ self is best explained through my interpretation of who I actually believe this to be, and it is, quite simply, the person I am when I am manic. Happy, charming, the ‘life and soul’ of the party, effervescent, bubbly, and all-consuming of anyone and anything that journeys upon my path with me whilst I am in that state.

However- a psychiatrist explained to me that this is not who I really am: This is a state of being that contains characteristics of my disorder. This is not my personality; that my personality can only be established once the medication <immense amounts of> has stabilised me.

If there was ever a literal, yet metaphorical, feeling of an arrow to the heart, the aforementioned explanation was it.

I felt as though I had an existential crisis: Who I am at my best; who I am when I feel my best…this man was telling me it is not truly and authentically ME. Now, I had to ponder upon this notion for a while- after crying and having said crisis- but I have come to one steady conclusion: Who I am- the intrinsic ME- is who I am when I am at peace. The catch is, however, that I can be at peace when I am depressed, too. That I can be at peace when the agony takes over my soul; like a black, heavy, cloud has entered my body and I become nobody. This, shockingly, is a state of peace for me, as it is a zone of comfort; of familiarity.

I am who I am, when I am it. But I am not my thoughts, and I am not my emotions.

Perhaps this is an isolated experience; I would love to connect with more Bipolar people and find out if this applies to them, too.

My point is thus (apologies for the long and convoluted essay): Esoterica is saving me from the Western frame of mind that I am ‘incurable’; that there is no hope as far as my disorders are concerned; that I will have to rely on chemicals to just ‘be me’, for the rest of my life. Well, no. I refuse to accept that as an absolute truth. I refuse to let myself be defined by an academic’s limited definition of what MY personality is actually like. I know I am in limbo; I am well-aware and cognitive of the fact that I have a psychological problem, but I am more convinced by the notion that I am merely stuck between Heaven and Earth, as I experience both Heaven and Hell all the feckin’ time.

If you choose to be defined by someone else’s opinion of you, be prepared to truly lose your core self. If you choose, however, to be open to the levels that exist within a spiritual realm, you can be liberated from the mental ties that so emphatically keep you from reaching your true potential.

This is a mere opinion, I am not advocating that medical help should be avoided. In no way I am saying that there is no relief from psychiatric solutions. What I AM suggesting, is that there are alternative options. That we need to stop limiting ourselves to the culture we have been conditioned to trust and give ourselves to, because how can we trust a system, when we struggle to even trust ourselves?

M

x

He.

Ramblings.

It’s as though he’s been burnt upon my soul. A wicked reminder of the abundant love I felt towards him. A scar I can refer to when I feel the need to be in an agonised state again. Because I constantly need to be agonised. If my being is happy, I question it. I scrutinise its mortality. I essentially don’t want to be in a state of happiness, because the fear of losing it is more overwhelming than the bliss of having it.

He makes me feel like I’m crazy. Like I’m losing pieces of myself day by day; losing them to paranoia and fear. There’s nothing as scary as the prospect of love, and then losing it. Losing something or someone you love is probably harder than losing your own body parts. At least there will be prosthetics for your lost limbs. There is no replacement for a lost heart. There is no magical plaster for a broken heart, nor a glue for a shattered one.

I don’t want him in my life anymore, and I wish he had never entered it in the first place. He is my one great love. The man I did everything for. The man I compromised myself for, yet it was never returned. The man who made me feel like I was of no value; that my lack of worth was only compensated for by my fragile body.

It’s definitely harder to let go when you are fighting to hold on. But why would someone fight for this? Why would anone want to feel like they’re an invalid entity? Is toxic love an option, or is there a last chance saloon; one that will bring closure to your quest for love?

But, why are we on a quest for love, anyways? It’s not as though absolute fulfilment comes from another person….or does it? Perhaps I just haven’t reached that level yet. Perhaps I just haven’t met that one person who can make me feel like I’m ‘complete’. I was always under the impression that fulfilment- true absolution from emptiness- came about when one is truly happy within themselves: Only once this is achieved, can another person be brought into the equation. However, it seems that most people are jumping into romances like headless chickens, with no concept of what’s actually going on. They just know that they ‘love’ the person. I have to contest that blind interpretation of what ‘love’ is.

Albeit that love is relative, there is a finite definition for it: love is the force of nature that drives unconditional devotion and respect towards a person, accompanied by pure joyous emotions. Hence, the antithesis of love, is pain. Why would one ultimately choose pain over pleasure? It is because pleasure is too precarious. It may leave us; abandon us and kneejerk us into feeling its empty- yet totally abundant with darkness- abyss.

I guess love can be a temporary fix; perhaps a bit like dissolvable stitches- useful until the wound has healed. But always remember- a scar is inevitable. And it’s this very fact that has me questioning love itself, because I don’t quite know where I stand anymore. And not with him, but with myself. Now if that’s not a romantic crisis, I don’t know what is.

Always remember, however: Love is gentle and kind. It is not out to hurt or damage. When these negative emotions are encountered, we are dealing with attachment, not love. But that’s a story for another day. ”Tis been a blue Monday; I would like to maintain what scraps of sanity I have left.

M

x

 

Song Sung Blue.

Ramblings.

Weekends are hard work.

Elaboration will naturally ensue, but I would like to place simple emphasis on how much work weekends are.

Social obligations. My gosh.

It is literally impossible to make everyone happy. With that said, however, why do we even take it upon ourselves to ‘make’ everyone happy, anyways? Who delegated the responsibility to us, when we were fresh and bloody babes, that we would be issued the task of making people happy for the rest of our lives? And note, momentarily please, the actual etymology of ‘make’: Old English macian, from a base meaning ‘fitting’; related to match.

‘Fitting’ implies to accommodate something into an existing situation. For example, I ‘fit’ my muffin top into my jeans. My jeans already exist; they have boundaries that have already been established. My muffin top, however, has the ability to expand or decrease (please, King Triton, for the love of mermaids, let it decrease!). This is a simple analogy of how we, as people, are a pair of jeans, that were made according to a pattern that would best suit our eventual figure. It’s getting a bit complicated, but bear with me.

So, the fact that we are tailored in a certain way, to suit our own body as best as possible, means that when we go out of our way to accommodate other people, we are compromising the original pattern of our jeans (I’m noticing a subconscious connotation of ‘genes’ here). By altering our jeans, we need to either add or subtract aspects, to or from them. For example, an elasticated waist- how far do you need to stretch your original pattern, in order to accommodate another person trying to fit into your pair of jeans? This equation is not isolated to you and only You. This equation applies to every(body).

The simplified version of above is thus: How far are we willing to go to alter ourselves to accommodate another person?

The party you’ve been dragged to by a friend that you don’t want to be at- do you simply not want to be there, or are there triggers within the environment that are making you uncomfortable? Will people judge you? Will they try make banal small talk? Will the hors d’oeuvres be as basic as the bitches?

Think about it: Do we really need to change who we intrinsically are, in order to satiate someone else’s need to be socially acceptable? So what if I have mermaid hair? So what if I’m 6ft1 (barefoot), and I’m a woman? Who cares? That very question is crucial to understanding your own need to adjust yourself ‘accordingly’. Why do we go out of our way to mould ourselves into what is socially desirable? There is no resolute definition of who a person should be. There are standards, yes, but more importantly, there are stigmas, and those are what one needs to be cautious of.

I am Bipolar, with co-morbid ADHD and OCD. These were initially ‘labels’ that I fought against with a vengeance- How dare these medical ‘professionals’ define me, my intrinsic being, as being a result of ‘disorders’? Are they thus implying that my nature is a disorder? Am I even who I think I am? These questions plagued me. They bore into my mind like a mole into a cave; I was seeking perfect answers. However, it was more of a case of when you look straight into the sun, and the more you stare at it, the blinder you become.

The key word is ‘stigma’, and perhaps- due to the above mentioned psychological aspects- I am a tad biased within this realm, but I have reached an important conclusion that sums up all the strange analogies that I have brain-farted out above: Experiencing the need to change to suit someone else’s life better as a necessity– well- it’s problematic. Firstly, why does that person require that you change? Is your behaviour or attitude causing harm? Is that person’s wellbeing compromised by your own necessitated state of wellbeing? It takes a pretty balanced person to reach the point of satisfying all party’s needs. But is this even necessary? If one has to go out of their way to comply with another person’s set beliefs and standards, is that really the type of person we should be fraternising with?

The answer, surprisingly (or un-), is yes.

Without challenges, we cannot change; without change, we cannot grow; and without growth, we will never reach an ultimate destination within our indubitably mortal lives.

Thus, as tedious as it may be to take your jeans back and forth to be tailored, it is a vital occurrence within our life paths. We cannot exist as sole entities. No man is an island. Without interaction; without challenging ourselves; without allowing ourselves to be open to learning from other people- we have nothing to work with.

Of course- we have ourselves. But unless you choose an existence of loneliness/purposeful solitude (subjective interpretation), then encounters with other humans are inevitable. Being stubborn and never swaying to reach a symbiosis with another person, is futile. We need to be aligned with people and their interests, in order to give true meaning to our own interests. Stigmas can only be broken through people understanding. Make them understand. Make them fit you.

M

x

Innocence Lost.

Ramblings.

Greetings,

As mentioned in my opening post, I have a vast array of passions that I would like to write about, and hopefully develop a symbiosis of reader and writer enjoyment.

Being a blog, the content is partial to being typically narcissistic. ‘I’ is a pronoun that will be extensively implemented within my writing, and thus I appreciate and take into consideration any thoughts or comments that you, as the reader, may have.

I seem to be laying down a foundation of disclaimers. It may be an attempt at helping you understand the processes within my mind- albeit perhaps futile. Our individual thought processes can be thoroughly explained and brilliantly articulated, but a subjective understanding of them from another being’s perspective, is inevitable.

This brings forth one of my favourite subjects in the world: Philosophy.

I can ramble on for hours about morality/hypotheses/dilemmas… It’s as though each time I reach an epiphany through my methodical process of analysing a topic, there are tiny little doors that open in my mind and shed light on new passages. New passages to make me question more; to make me treat situations differently; to help me understand the delicate and disastrous intricacies that humans are compiled of.

The philosophy that my mind is conjuring up now – as I do believe that a philosophical principle can be a construct of our own thoughts –  is the dilemma of detaching from a social media identity.

Yesterday, I deleted Facebook and Instagram.

I cannot explain, in way that would not be overboard and verbose, how absolutely liberated I feel. It is as though every socially-acceptable mask that I had carefully curated, developed, and maintained, fell away and I became my authentic self.

I am crazy; I am wild; I am free.

The person/people we choose to be on social media, is a terrifying conglomeration of elements. Whilst we think we are being ‘brave’ by baring our vulnerability to the world, we are sitting back and frantically stroking our fragile egos. EGO. The destroyer of all that is pure. Narcissism reigns supreme as we scramble to make ourselves noticed; claw through the masses with a fervor – just so that someone will acknowledge our pained existence. So that someone will validate our purpose for being on earth. This ‘purpose’ is, of course, brutally twisted by the societal standards set by some invisible board of members that can’t even tell the difference between gouda and cheddar. “Tis important to know your cheeses.

Meanwhile, we sit wrought with anxiety about how many likes our selfie got… Questions fray the edges of what little is left of our sanity: am I pretty/funny/smart/caring enough? If I repost this meme, or this picture of me with ‘friends’, will I be the proverbial Cool Kid? Well, no. You will be an image of your image. A mirror that is so desperately distorted by its own tragic desire to reflect as something. Something REAL. Isn’t it ironic? We strive to be actual through a virtual construct. We strive to exist, through an invisible array of elements that are visually delivered upon our eager screens. The fact that our souls are dusty and dehydrated, is irrelevant. The fact that we dismiss our true purpose within life- of which I believe is relevant to all of mankind, and of which I will return to at another point- is completely dismissed, as long we feel that we are featuring in someone else’s mind. Of course, we get greedy, and we want to be on everyone’s minds. So we adapt; we play with the virtual construct of ourselves like a kid with putty. Moulding and shaping ourselves into the perfect vision we have of ourselves in our own mislead minds. And after all that’s said and shown within these realms of manufactured reality, we are left to shiver as shell-less, former versions of our true selves. Because at the end of the day, we are intrinsically alone.

And with good reason.

It’s innocence lost.

We were born into societal decree. Did we ask to be who we are? Or were we conditioned to be this way? Do we even know ‘what way’ we would truly like to be? Do we even fuckin’ know anything?

There is one prime notion of reality that always stands true: we know nothing about everything, and everything about nothing. That which matters; that which feeds our souls and fuels our metamorphosis process to transform into versions of ourselves that actually have gravity- those matters lie within a pool of our ignorance. The superficial BS that surrounds us and hogs and fogs our brains- we are absolute experts on that.

We cannot be productive human beings until we release ego. Until we surrender to the tribal principles that the cells in our DNA are comprised of. I’m not insinuating that we should nullify how much we have achieved as humans- medical advances, compassion for humanity, etc.- but I am suggesting that the weight of what’s more important, is more important.

That topic, however, is a passage that I will explore at some other point.

For now, it is imperative for me to have helped you grasp the essence of what I’m saying: Socially constructed masks deprive us of the elements that will serve to be beneficial in the course of following our ‘true path’. Yes, I do combine esoterica with philosophy, and so yes, some people may not agree with what I am saying (a case of: are you picking up what I’m putting down?). However, I appreciate and admire this ability to differentiate your own thoughts, from what might just be the cleverly worded manipulations of an anonymous person behind a screen.

But know this: What is true and real in my mind, is true and real in my reality. You can do the same. Manifest your actuality. But don’t let yourself be fooled by the ugly disguise that social media wears; a disguise of letting you be the ‘real you’, meanwhile, you are another leg of consumable mutton, caught up in a spiral of control and ownership.

Be young; be wild; be free.

M

x

Clumpy Mascara.

Ramblings.

I know.

Another blog. Another writer striving to be recognised, whilst the proverbial dangling carrot of worldwide acclamation taunts and teases a tired and old donkey. Ok, perhaps not that old – 27 years, to be exact. The Lucky 27’s Club. Imminence of mortality- too- dangles before me. Morbid? Nah. Superstitious? Quite likely. I do tend to touch a lot of wood.

Disclaimer:

I don’t claim to be an exceptional writer. But I can claim authenticity. I have a chameleon soul, and through this kaleidoscope of personalities, I have vast and varied passions. Too many, honestly. I am constantly torn into different directions, depending on what colour of mood I wake up in. This morning, particularly, I woke up in an orange frenzy, with an energy that is causing the nerves in my fingers to pulsate.

I am a writer: by nature; by intrinsic passion; by default.

Thus, I do hope that you, appreciated reader, enjoy whatever <oft convoluted> sentences sprout from this psychedelically-inclined mind of mine.

M

x