I spend an awful lot of time thinking about how crappy the world is and how some dragons and maybe even a unicorn would spruce the place up. Less starvation and murdering and more "wheeeee I'm flying," or, "hey, look, it's an itty bitty scaly dwagon awww."
I think it all comes from individuals, me, in this case, having an enduring desire to somehow feel special, because then, you see, I will matter.
Aye, thar be the crux.
We all want to matter. We want our suffering and struggling to pay off. We want to buy our way into favor. We each believe certain stories about ourselves and we identify with them fiercely. Some of us even find our specialness by denying we buy into the idea of specialness in the first place.
But see, we're trying to validate our stories, not ourselves. What I am is what I am. It does not change due to some face I wear or what dance I perform or even what I think about myself. People talk about defining themselves, but often that means sharpening their contrast against others. And the distinction between me and you and a potted plant is getting pretty blurry. It's just a story.
I know I've been all broken record lately. I think about this more often than just about anything else. Maybe I should be focusing on what does feel real and what does seem to matter instead of whining about a broken world and my own blindness.
There is an echo of my brush with a grander reality underlying my insistance. I knew, recognized, felt timelessness. Words fail. And I wish very much to experience that again. Maybe only that. Knowing what you are is joy. Knowing there is no need to be afraid, ever is liberation.
I want to know that I'm free, and I want to show others that they are too.