juggling unhappiness is like a crash course to meditation without the safety net to hold you.
you drop in and face your demons. ugly motherfuckers with the power of your internal narrative and the familiarity of your external voice, as heard through your own ears when you talk and your nose is kinda blocked. you know, the pitch we all hate to identify as our own in some accidental recording. but you are not guided by an elder or safe in the space of the circle. you haven't extensively searched for truth and plateaued and remained high for weeks or chose to be part of the activities. what's more to note, you will never reach any higher level of anything.
stuck in a super-murky puddle of shit you ruined your only good shoes and made your mama disappointed a million times all over her most favourite of happy memories. thrown in by nothing. by yourself. you took the step you never do when standing close to the coming train, close to the platform edge. you move forward without any doubts and any ability to stop the movement. you accept. you look at. you understand. you embody it.
like meditation, you reach the trancelike phase of only thinking of the one concept without effort. without attention. with all your energy.
you get accustomed to shedding your skin and sitting there amongst your own shit for everyone you ever craved respect from to experience. you are a nothing made of feelings. the uncoolest mass of the wrong type of hair and always uncomfortable skin and dissatisfying bone and squidgy cartilage. you get your period every second. you start wanking for the very second time, when you know what to do, and the entire collection of your personal enemies and teachers who never believed in you and bosses who were jealous of you and shopkeepers who refuse to connect with you and doctors who only see you as a statistic walk in. you look up not knowing to take your hand out of your pants or to carry on and live out a sick fantasy but the meta- of this occurrence makes you pee yourself and there go the only dry clothes you deserve.
every day life made out of hell. you, like meditation, know this is exactly as severe as everything else in life and as important as this very second you live. you know to pull your skeleton up by the head, with a string attached to the highest point in the middle of your scull. you pull the puppet up and with your wobbly rusty hands you pull your joints in, to click in position. you stand tall and carry on despite the hurricane fighting against you. you lose your coat but you're already in shambles, who gives a fuck?
and then you try to announce to yourself that it's all ok. it's fine. you'll make it to the other side of the room, even if other people have been able to do this so much better and your inability is merely a sign of clear incompetence. it's fine, you try to say with a breaking awkward voice you can't control the volume of. "if i didn't deserve this, i wouldn't be here" you rationalise to the intense eyes looking in and out of you. as you say that you slip on a banana peel and fall over. you break you legs and have to start all over again.
yes. having experienced sadness is a bit like meditation.
but after it you're left with something more solid than the importance and insignificance of matter. you have looked at yourself. you have looked in the eyes. and it stays with you. you can look for it and see it in the eyes of your friends. those who know salute each other with a jitter of an upper lip and a little quick sniff and look away and a scratch of the head. just look around. and you will see that this place doesn't exist. like nothing does. more than you or i perceive it.
you drop in and face your demons. ugly motherfuckers with the power of your internal narrative and the familiarity of your external voice, as heard through your own ears when you talk and your nose is kinda blocked. you know, the pitch we all hate to identify as our own in some accidental recording. but you are not guided by an elder or safe in the space of the circle. you haven't extensively searched for truth and plateaued and remained high for weeks or chose to be part of the activities. what's more to note, you will never reach any higher level of anything.
stuck in a super-murky puddle of shit you ruined your only good shoes and made your mama disappointed a million times all over her most favourite of happy memories. thrown in by nothing. by yourself. you took the step you never do when standing close to the coming train, close to the platform edge. you move forward without any doubts and any ability to stop the movement. you accept. you look at. you understand. you embody it.
like meditation, you reach the trancelike phase of only thinking of the one concept without effort. without attention. with all your energy.
you get accustomed to shedding your skin and sitting there amongst your own shit for everyone you ever craved respect from to experience. you are a nothing made of feelings. the uncoolest mass of the wrong type of hair and always uncomfortable skin and dissatisfying bone and squidgy cartilage. you get your period every second. you start wanking for the very second time, when you know what to do, and the entire collection of your personal enemies and teachers who never believed in you and bosses who were jealous of you and shopkeepers who refuse to connect with you and doctors who only see you as a statistic walk in. you look up not knowing to take your hand out of your pants or to carry on and live out a sick fantasy but the meta- of this occurrence makes you pee yourself and there go the only dry clothes you deserve.
every day life made out of hell. you, like meditation, know this is exactly as severe as everything else in life and as important as this very second you live. you know to pull your skeleton up by the head, with a string attached to the highest point in the middle of your scull. you pull the puppet up and with your wobbly rusty hands you pull your joints in, to click in position. you stand tall and carry on despite the hurricane fighting against you. you lose your coat but you're already in shambles, who gives a fuck?
and then you try to announce to yourself that it's all ok. it's fine. you'll make it to the other side of the room, even if other people have been able to do this so much better and your inability is merely a sign of clear incompetence. it's fine, you try to say with a breaking awkward voice you can't control the volume of. "if i didn't deserve this, i wouldn't be here" you rationalise to the intense eyes looking in and out of you. as you say that you slip on a banana peel and fall over. you break you legs and have to start all over again.
yes. having experienced sadness is a bit like meditation.
but after it you're left with something more solid than the importance and insignificance of matter. you have looked at yourself. you have looked in the eyes. and it stays with you. you can look for it and see it in the eyes of your friends. those who know salute each other with a jitter of an upper lip and a little quick sniff and look away and a scratch of the head. just look around. and you will see that this place doesn't exist. like nothing does. more than you or i perceive it.
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