I was laying in bed having pretend conversations with people in my head and I liked what was happening and I remembered who I was and thought I should share it. Because that’s what writing is. You share things. How did I forget such a fundamentally simple concept?
The truth is what which works. I believe I’ve said that before on here. So what works? Bitterness, or moving on?
Truth is truth. Certain precepts of psychological and emotional wellness cannot be argued or altered. Of course, in modernity, anything goes, but for anyone committed to a functional view of something, only certain things go. Psychologically and emotionally well people do not hunt for revenge, or relive their struggles constantly, with dedication. I can hear the accusations of being insensitive to PTSD. That’s involuntary experiences, and certainly these people want to move on from the past. There’s an insidious encouragement to win the game of suffering. That’s at the core of modern movements. Modern academia, modern thought at large, modern attitudes and ideologies. The perversion of what strength is, or what a worthy life is. Bitterness has become chic. The desire to destroy everything around you without leaving anything behind, or without considering what should or shouldn’t be destroyed. There’s no more assessing what’s baby and what’s bathwater. It’s simply an full eradication of streets with apartments, any of which have bathrooms. That’s what emotional mismanagement does. I have no interest in painting emotions as the enemy. They are powerful and integral elements of our shared humanity, and because they are so powerful and so important, they must be carefully utilized. They must be positioned correctly. Placed correctly. Filtered, treated, purified. Poison versus elixir. It’s the same element it’s simply treated differently. Snake venom antidotes are made from the venom. I believe I’ve written this before as well. It’s true. People don’t want to transform their venom. What’s the sacrifice? There’s something so fulfilling in rage, entitlement, and… there must be something else to call it than victimhood. It’s an attempt at love. It’s holding all the painful broken pieces and cradling them and saying this is me and i love it but it doesn’t allow you to live. You have to bury those broken pieces and let them grow into something new. A million images and metaphors; venom/antivenom, broken things growing anew. Whatever it is, it’s just… people are living in pain and cannot move beyond it.
And those who do? They are quiet. Because when you’ve undergone this process of transformation, you’ve just living. You’re out there living, and you don’t need to scream as much as anymore, if at all. So the people with genuine wisdom quietly live their lives. They’ve earned it. But then the loudest people win.
Mmmmm I miss this. Thinking. Words. Thinking. Words. And I lived like this. I can do it again? In a new form. I’ve been undergoing this transformative process I’m advocating. It’s good. Shedding so many layers. Yet another metaphor.
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Love. Only the loving find love. Neville Goddard.
Only the loving find love. I think about this a lot. It makes sense. Why wouldn’t it? But it can’t be confused for perfection. I’m realizing how much I have perfectionist tendencies. Being loving doesn’t mean you don’t have other things inside. It’s always Newton’s Third Law (also mentioned previously. I’m seeing patterns and themes today…), every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I suppose it’s not automatic though. In this personal development sense. There’s potential for greatness when you’ve been torn apart, but it’s up to you to actualize it. Potential. What is potential in a scientific sense?
*briefly Googles*
Good lord I can’t understand even the most basic concepts in physics. At least not through reading. Hmm… I need a good physics tutor.
It’s amazing how much we don’t know about really basic things. I can barely complete the simplest of arithmetic. I’m sophisticated enough to call it arithmetic without a sense of irony, yet single digit addition is about as far as I can comfortably go these days.
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I’m loosing myself. The perils of stream of consciousness writing. I do miss crafting a piece. I don’t want to consider this at the moment.
A thousand words. It used to be nothing! A breath! A flick of my wrist. 720. I struggle to get to 1000 now. Amazing. Stamina, like anything else.
Ok. Giving up for now. More to do.
Each Day Is A Journey 