Sometimes, morality is like a burden. Some choose to carry its weight willingly. Some never even realize they've been lugging it around all their lives. Some refuse to acknowledge it's existance. And some try to chuck it as far away as possible, never noticing that where ever they go, they're dragging its weight behind them on chains.
Does it hold us back? Does it make us stronger? Does it fetter our potential? Does it empower the soul?
Maybe yes. Maybe no. Depends on who you ask.
As for me, well... I kinda like this particular burden I'm carrying. I think I'll keep it around for a while. Like maybe the rest of my life. At least.
_____
Sometimes life is like when you bite yourself on the inside of your lip by accident.
The first time it hurts, but not too bad. The second time, it hurts more, and the swelling caused by the first bite really flares up. By the third time, your mouth gets all swollen up and it's painful. You don't exactly want to bite yourself again, but the swelling increases the likelihood that you're gonna chomp down on yourself again, the next time you're trying to eat something.
And eventually, you gotta go rinse your mouth out with salt water several times a day to fix the problem. Which hurts. But hey, sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do, eh?
How is that like life? Hey, I just post random thoughts, I don't try to make sense outta them.
_____
...favorite line right now, excerpt from Reaper Man* by Terry Pratchett:
SEE? I HAVE TIME. AT LAST, I HAVE TIME!
Albert backed away nervously.
"And now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?" he said.
Death mounted his horse.
I AM GOING TO SPEND IT.
Yes indeed. Go spend some time, people. Just remember: try to spend it, not waste it.
__________
* Pratchett, Terry. Reaper Man. HarperTorch, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishing, NY, 1991
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
pot and kettle...
I find it ironic and somewhat painful that I give to others the advice I have so much difficulty taking myself. I always feel like a hypocrite. It doesn't make the advice any less true. Yet it also doesn't make it any less difficult to believe it myself.
I hate conflict. I hate confrontation. I'm not good at it. Can't cope with it well. I don't know what it is exactly that makes me avoid it at every opportunity. Which makes me wonder if that wasn't a factor in me moving away from home in the first place. The passive avoidance of conflict. Of confrontation. Because it's easier to deal with things when there's a bit of distance.
It hurts to see my low self esteem reflected in others close to me. I can see in my brother the same kind of self-inflicted emotional torment that I always manage to put myself through. The same feelings of worthlessness. Of contempt. Of anguish. The same fears of not being good enough. Of being a failure. Of losing at life.
Angsty? Yeah. Some of us don't outgrow it, I guess.
I'm trying to be what my brother always was for me. My cheerleader. My supporter. The one who always made me laugh when I was down. The one who always dragged me out of the shadows and into the light.
Yet at the same time, there's a little voice mocking me, deep inside. Pot and kettle, it whispers quietly, snickering with gleeful malice as it disparages my efforts. Who am I to offer any advice on self esteem? I, who have about as much sense of self worth as a dried up piece of cat turd left outside the litterbox?
I don't know. I've never known. But I'll be damned if I let my little brother throw his life away. He deserves better than a life spent believing himself an utter failure, because he's not one.
And maybe, just maybe, neither am I.
I hate conflict. I hate confrontation. I'm not good at it. Can't cope with it well. I don't know what it is exactly that makes me avoid it at every opportunity. Which makes me wonder if that wasn't a factor in me moving away from home in the first place. The passive avoidance of conflict. Of confrontation. Because it's easier to deal with things when there's a bit of distance.
It hurts to see my low self esteem reflected in others close to me. I can see in my brother the same kind of self-inflicted emotional torment that I always manage to put myself through. The same feelings of worthlessness. Of contempt. Of anguish. The same fears of not being good enough. Of being a failure. Of losing at life.
Angsty? Yeah. Some of us don't outgrow it, I guess.
I'm trying to be what my brother always was for me. My cheerleader. My supporter. The one who always made me laugh when I was down. The one who always dragged me out of the shadows and into the light.
Yet at the same time, there's a little voice mocking me, deep inside. Pot and kettle, it whispers quietly, snickering with gleeful malice as it disparages my efforts. Who am I to offer any advice on self esteem? I, who have about as much sense of self worth as a dried up piece of cat turd left outside the litterbox?
I don't know. I've never known. But I'll be damned if I let my little brother throw his life away. He deserves better than a life spent believing himself an utter failure, because he's not one.
And maybe, just maybe, neither am I.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Chains
Somewhere inside, deep inside, there is a heart that bleeds. A smallish heart, though others misperceive it as otherwise. A crippled heart, scarred and battered by self-inflicted wounds. A selfish heart, clothed in good intentions and false expectations both. It is not what it seems, no matter how it tries to be. It resides somewhere lost, hidden and locked away, buried deep within the barren earth. Kept safe from inadvertent harm.
But not from harm by intent.
Emotional scars are easier to hide, and the wounds of the heart never heal. Not even the ones you cause yourself.
Sometimes I miss the coldness. The armor of detachment. The empowerment of despair. Sometimes I wish I could bury myself in it, be possessed by it fully. Embrace the cold uncaring wind, to cast myself off the ledge at long last, and be free.
Can you fear the very freedom you seek? Can you face the darkness of the unknown, unflinchingly? Flicking the switch of conscience and consciousness in one fell swoop?
Blasted, wretched warmth. Cursing my existence. Casting light on the shadows I long to hide in. At times, I think I would do well to be rid of it.
At times, I would give much to be free of the chains that bind. If only to stop the pain.
But not from harm by intent.
Emotional scars are easier to hide, and the wounds of the heart never heal. Not even the ones you cause yourself.
Sometimes I miss the coldness. The armor of detachment. The empowerment of despair. Sometimes I wish I could bury myself in it, be possessed by it fully. Embrace the cold uncaring wind, to cast myself off the ledge at long last, and be free.
Can you fear the very freedom you seek? Can you face the darkness of the unknown, unflinchingly? Flicking the switch of conscience and consciousness in one fell swoop?
Blasted, wretched warmth. Cursing my existence. Casting light on the shadows I long to hide in. At times, I think I would do well to be rid of it.
At times, I would give much to be free of the chains that bind. If only to stop the pain.
Monday, April 24, 2006
fear
Fear.
Right here, and right now, I feel a lot of fear. Fear that I can't cut it. Fear that I won't make it. Fear that I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not talented enough. Fear that I'm doomed to fail. Not just out here, but everywhere. With everything. At everything.
Forever.
Fear also that something is going to happen back home, and that because I've put myself so far away, I'm going to also fail at the one thing I've always been pretty good at - being of help to the family.
It's the one thing I've always managed to do okay. The one thing that, after so many years, I kinda felt like I had a handle on. And now I can't. And lacking that stability, that strong rock I've always used to prop up my meager self esteem... I feel lost.
Especially now.
My grandparents are getting on in age. On one side of the family, my grandmother is waiting for a spot to open up at a Japanese cconvalescence home, because she's very weak. On the other side, my grandfather is slowing down - forgetting things, getting lost in conversations, getting confused. And grandma has lost more weight, Mom tells me - she last weighted in at something like 68 lbs., and the doctor is concerned about her emphysema. She going back this week for x-rays.
I talk on the phone with Mom sometimes, maybe once or twice a week. She's running herself ragged trying to juggle everything - even though she SAYS she's not.
I'm worried about her. I'm worried about my Dad too. And I'm worried about my grandparents. I know that they're getting older. I know what's coming. And I know there's nothing I can do about it. But I'm still worried
And I'm still afraid.
Right here, and right now, I feel a lot of fear. Fear that I can't cut it. Fear that I won't make it. Fear that I'm not good enough, not smart enough, not talented enough. Fear that I'm doomed to fail. Not just out here, but everywhere. With everything. At everything.
Forever.
Fear also that something is going to happen back home, and that because I've put myself so far away, I'm going to also fail at the one thing I've always been pretty good at - being of help to the family.
It's the one thing I've always managed to do okay. The one thing that, after so many years, I kinda felt like I had a handle on. And now I can't. And lacking that stability, that strong rock I've always used to prop up my meager self esteem... I feel lost.
Especially now.
My grandparents are getting on in age. On one side of the family, my grandmother is waiting for a spot to open up at a Japanese cconvalescence home, because she's very weak. On the other side, my grandfather is slowing down - forgetting things, getting lost in conversations, getting confused. And grandma has lost more weight, Mom tells me - she last weighted in at something like 68 lbs., and the doctor is concerned about her emphysema. She going back this week for x-rays.
I talk on the phone with Mom sometimes, maybe once or twice a week. She's running herself ragged trying to juggle everything - even though she SAYS she's not.
I'm worried about her. I'm worried about my Dad too. And I'm worried about my grandparents. I know that they're getting older. I know what's coming. And I know there's nothing I can do about it. But I'm still worried
And I'm still afraid.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Ramblings
Sometimes trying to develop a new character is interesting and revealing. I get the chance to look at things from a slightly different perspective.
_____
Within the confines of my own thoughts, I pace. Counting out the steps as I go. The wisps of memory, the smoldering vestiges of hope, the lingering caress of dreams. Cataloguing them with each step, each pace, one foot followed by another, until I reach the end. Then I turn, reversing my course, to start the process yet again.
Counting again.
So much, and yet so little as well. So much left undone. So little, accomplished. And so little time. Behind me, the span of decades lost. Wasted. Thrown away in the name of … what, exactly? For want of money? Power? Hatred? Revenge? Glory? Freedom?
Or was it fear?
So pitiful. I see it now, so clearly. Caught in a web of lies, though I did not know it at the time. Lies I was told, and believed, because I was too foolish to stop and question. But still a web of my own weaving. And so the blame lies on me, and me alone.
The past cannot be changed. It is what it is, and nothing more. The years lost cannot be taken back. No amount of regret can turn back the course of time.
And yet, regret lingers. Cannot be banished by reason, by understanding. Such things are under the mind’s purview. Emotions, under reign of the heart. Emotions such as regret. Such as guilt. Such as longing. Such as hatred and desire as well.
A lifetime of such, I’ve had.
Enough. No more. My sword I lay down, here and now. Never again will I wield it in battle. Though through the generations my family has borne it in honor, never again shall it wield me. No more for me, this path of rage and hatred. Another path I shall find, old as I am. Another way.
They will not look kindly on this act, that I know. But such is the price to be paid. I will pay it. My name, my rank, my clan – these things, I give up. My family lays shattered already, broken beyond all hope of repair. My son, dead from following his father’s path, my path – the path of the sword. My wife, near-mad with grief over our boy’s death, filled with anger and blame. My daughter, filled with youthful zeal and belief, unable to see beyond the web of lies and illusions they use to beguile.
I am alone. I am myself. And somehow, some way, I shall find my path.
_____
Within the confines of my own thoughts, I pace. Counting out the steps as I go. The wisps of memory, the smoldering vestiges of hope, the lingering caress of dreams. Cataloguing them with each step, each pace, one foot followed by another, until I reach the end. Then I turn, reversing my course, to start the process yet again.
Counting again.
So much, and yet so little as well. So much left undone. So little, accomplished. And so little time. Behind me, the span of decades lost. Wasted. Thrown away in the name of … what, exactly? For want of money? Power? Hatred? Revenge? Glory? Freedom?
Or was it fear?
So pitiful. I see it now, so clearly. Caught in a web of lies, though I did not know it at the time. Lies I was told, and believed, because I was too foolish to stop and question. But still a web of my own weaving. And so the blame lies on me, and me alone.
The past cannot be changed. It is what it is, and nothing more. The years lost cannot be taken back. No amount of regret can turn back the course of time.
And yet, regret lingers. Cannot be banished by reason, by understanding. Such things are under the mind’s purview. Emotions, under reign of the heart. Emotions such as regret. Such as guilt. Such as longing. Such as hatred and desire as well.
A lifetime of such, I’ve had.
Enough. No more. My sword I lay down, here and now. Never again will I wield it in battle. Though through the generations my family has borne it in honor, never again shall it wield me. No more for me, this path of rage and hatred. Another path I shall find, old as I am. Another way.
They will not look kindly on this act, that I know. But such is the price to be paid. I will pay it. My name, my rank, my clan – these things, I give up. My family lays shattered already, broken beyond all hope of repair. My son, dead from following his father’s path, my path – the path of the sword. My wife, near-mad with grief over our boy’s death, filled with anger and blame. My daughter, filled with youthful zeal and belief, unable to see beyond the web of lies and illusions they use to beguile.
I am alone. I am myself. And somehow, some way, I shall find my path.