Life is a rambling thing—uncensored, unsafe, and uncaring. The things we do to each other, and ourselves in the name of whatever, cannot be reconciled. Neither can the things our minds’ do to us.

Those things that we try to explain away on the surface of our minds’ do not reflect any sort of real truth. We all make our own truths. We construct, sometimes simply as a way to survive, truths that we can live with; truths that do not allow us to reveal the real person inside.

From the moment we identify ourselves as a unique thing among other things, we start building, stone by stone, a self that we can present to the world. Whether that self is good or evil or a bit of both, it becomes what we are willing to show.

Eventually; however, we start believing the very lie we have created. We have to, or we could never live with the creation. We are the Prometheus, the Frankenstein of our own craftsmanship. Time passes—many years, the person we have created becomes us. It becomes the only us we can recognize. It begins with our success of being recognized or “boxed” by those we have intrinsically deceived.

Can we change? Can we be reborn? Do we want to?

These are questions that most will never try to answer. It is just too hard. It is like tearing down a great castle with a single hammer. And when the wall is breached and the tower falls, who are you? That is the real fear. Who are you when everything is stripped down to the essence? When your center place of reference is not self-constructed, but simply realized. Can you be happy with what you find?

I don’t know.

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Who am I after all?

Am I a sentient thing from an eternal increase? Am I fierce disaster or a masterpiece?

I do not know.

Life is a rambling thing—uncensored, unsafe, and uncaring…