The price we pay in life is only a fraction of the cost of the damage we create. When you look in the mirror, you only see the outline; you see the skin. Have you ever gotten closer and looked at the lens? WE are beautiful when we can get past the sightseeing.
I have been trying to get my thoughts in order so I can write and it is not working. There are so many things going on in the world that are overly persuading opinions and debate. I personally haven’t remarked on any because I feel so much is deeper than media outlets will offer. Also, when I am in this state, I am not able to get past a thought. I have had many and been excited to share them. However, they last about as long as a fart.
I am burdened with my own life as well. I mean, do not get me wrong; externally my life is great. However, the turmoil that is inside my mind is weighing me down. It comes in waves. I am an ocean of remorse. So many times I confuse life with thoughts and have to remind myself that those aren’t real. Suicide crosses my mind daily. It is something that I have learned to deal with because I will not go out that way. I tried it once. It isn’t what its cut out to be and furthermore, it didn’t work.
When I first got to NC a week ago, I was in the mind of helping, of really doing some cleaning up of the disaster that Hurricane Flo left in her path. That isn’t what happened. My laziness and depression have taken over. I am barely hanging onto the normal work schedule I have implemented for myself in order to monetarily survive. Seriously, it is a struggle.
As I write this, I am cognizant of the smiles that stretch across the faces of those that loathe me when they read the word remorse; I see you. You secretly read me and wait in hiding like a hyena on a lion with splinters in his eyes. Do not let your ego evolve, for I am strong. I am remorseful for the natural world I let myself shade across. I am doubtful of the purpose we strive for in incompetence and ineptitude when dealing with our planet. My life is good. My life is only bantered by my own thoughts. I almost feel as if there is another person in me. There is so much that I do not remember and do not know.
Then, I realize nothing. Every time I think that I have broken through to another level of being compassionate, I am brought back to the stage, the Broadway show of life. Dramatically being prosed to those that want to write my script. At the same time, I see myself surrendering and able to front at al cost. I am a battlefield and yet I am without arms. I am only here to indulge in everyone’s pain. They reflect into me and let me know that I am the awkward that they feel. I accept it because as a reflection, you are a reflection. And the pain I feel, I would never want to genuinely reflect into anyone.
I am confused.