*
Last night, while in something that I’m calling meditation, I had a brief but significant peek into some of the anger I carry. There, lying untouched and in the distance were things I didn’t even know I remembered, wafting their way into my conscious body. I sat with them for a short-long time. I felt the pictures, saw the faces, felt the blue rage
or something else entirely, something more complicated.
**
The anger was not aimed where I thought it might be. Not at the so-called perpetrators or the people who (according to my fallible memory) did not know how to love or hold me. Not the injustices or the things that may or may not have been said. No, the anger was at the origin stories, mine and yours. Our tender beginnings. The fact that I did not feel empowered enough to protect myself.
The fact that we hurt each other in pursuit of safety.
You would see a thing coming and not know how to stop it. We would be the architects of our comfortable doom.
***
Then we grow older, don’t we? We coat ourselves in our rage and our skewed interpretations, and they stick so close they become our skins,
and we use these ‘personalities’ to control our worlds.
This is the problem; no tools. This is the harm. It is the oldest reason for the ills that occur in and outside of us, the oldest reason for everything rotting. If there are worlds that are true in my mind, even my subconscious, there’s a good chance that I’m creating something in line with my beliefs. Some are them are lost, some are old things on the way out, some are ludicrous and benign,
and some might be ruining my life (and yours).
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