The fundamental flaw in our logic may come in our understanding of ourselves. We aren’t really anything. We are constant motion in multiple directions, spinning in a circle, rotating around a fixed point of energy along with everything else.
So, tell me, where is the “I” in this equation? Self obsession is a disease. It will haunt you like the ghosts that start getting real close when it’s time to get moving again. The flaw is early in the foundation of our pyramid, miles and miles underground, a tick off dead center of the focus of the source of all magnetic energy (gravity); the place where we all get sucked down into, the place that we’re all confined to.
There is no “I”. Every second of every day is just filled with moments of passing time that are somewhere between the near past and the near future, oftentimes tipping the scale in one direction or the other. Experiences are just the recognition of sensory stimuli that we observe haphazardly. Each instant holds an infinite collection of colors and songs and data and everything else, from daydreams to nightmares to beauty through horror; we just fall asleep in the habit of seeing one small speck of the canvas and we stare at it, far too often for much longer than we should.
Where is this “I” that we’re all so stuck on? In the mirror? The phenomena of dysmorphia dispels that notion. The classically beautiful so often spend an inordinate amount of time trying to come to grips with their appearance: you think what they look into in the mirror is the same as what we see when we walk by? Do we even see the same thing? Or do we all interpret energy differently? Do we only agree on classical beauty to keep order? Shine comes in virtue, not in physical perfection. Life is the essence of imperfection.
And virtue, well, that ain’t the easiest thing to nail down, either. Sometimes it appears that you have met someone with a shine that is unending, a perspective that is unshakeable, a spirit that is always dancing in the glitter of glee… Then the fuckin’ lightning crashes and you see that they’ve been playing on your perspective to put themselves on the top of the mountain, and as their armor of glory reveals itself like the portrait of Dorian Gray, you see their beauty melt away, replaced by the hideous reality of their self-serving nature.
What is “I”, anyway? When someone says “I know who I am” they never do. None of us do. It’s fluid. One day we’re up and the next day we’re down. One day we’re the dog and the next day we’re the sunrise. Through one pair of eyes we shine and through a pair of ears we dissolve.
I searched for a long, long time for myself only to find that I am an abstract painting that shifts and shutters, catches fire and branches out into an eternity of electrical wires that connect to each and every form of life that ever was and ever will be. The angels and demons have always walked right through me, puppeteers and shoulders to cry on, selfish and selfless, back and forth on the rocking chair of a pendulum that always matches its previous swing.
They’ll tell you that you’re this way or that way, but don’t take it so personal. They’re not wrong and they’re not right. They just are, just like me and you. Sometimes they want you to change your behavior and sometimes they just want to put you in chains. Sometimes they want to change you for the better and sometimes they want to run away with their favorite piece of your soul. Sometimes they’re just trying to distract themselves from the burden they’ve been running from for the past fifty lifetimes and sometimes they’re just in a bad mood and they take it out on you.
I’m not here. I and you and them and us and all that shit is a dream within a story that we tell ourselves every day; the plot of a narrative that we watch through the lenses of our eyes… But the film is always best to watch without a preconceived notion of the unfolding of its events.