Okay, so going along with what I wrote yesterday, I woke up really thinking about how a lack of focus causes me pain. As a result, I thought about what I wanted to focus on this morning. In sort of feeling where the least amount of pain was, I realized I felt the least pain thinking about who I was. If I can keep a good thought of who I am in life, then what I do becomes way less painful for me. I just need to figure out who I am. I didn't have a good answer for this.
It's because there is so much to do. There's so much potential activity. There's so many little tasks that need to be done and some of those things are even risky. Especially when I am venturing into new territory, I am taking on risk. Having a firm comprehension of what I am doing is just not feasible. Instead, I need to know who I am because that's easier to be sure of. Then I can stop being so overwhelmed by worry and all that sort of stuff. Also like annoyance too, maybe frustration. Like there's a lot of stuff I don't want to do because it's like why even bother? Why should I even care so much to go through with this?
Instead of trying to assess all this in the context of what I am doing, I feel it is way easier for my mind to process it in the context of who I am and how it relates to my identity. I really felt a major relief from pain thinking through it this way, but the problem is that relief had no substance. Meaning there was no substantial identity I could afford myself that could take on the various tasks I desire to accomplish. It was only the concept of an identity that provided me relief, but I had no formation of one in my head.
I did try to understand my identity in a historical analysis of my life. The best way to know who I am now is to consider who I was in the past. However, my past has been filled with escaping. I have been constantly getting away from who I am and where I was born to be. Ahh, okay writing this I realized I was really a romantic. This was the last thing I was, and I was sort of living out that identity by finding someone to be romantic towards. It was like I found a small space for myself for romantic expression where the pinnacle of who I desired to be could be experienced. What I found from this was I was incredibly unstable. An identity as a romantic did not fit me well, so I had to find out who I was another way.
Then I made a transition in that place. I said I no longer wished to experience the most romantic life possible but rather the most beautiful life. In this transition, I suppose I somehow found myself drawn to here. The idea of putting things to death compelled me, and I suppose then what I did was put to death the "romantic me". I ended my last connection to romanticism, and although I hope I made some error doing this for the sake of the person I cared for, I think it had to be done for the sake of my identity being able to fully transition.
Now I don't quite know what to transition to. I don't know what identity is most beautiful to me I suppose, but I know what I feel is left of me after having put the final remnants of my romanticism to death. All I feel I have left is my animal nature. I feel disgusted and in despair over it. There is no putting the animal in me to death so long as my lungs draw breath, and I hate my savagery far more than I hated the flaws I uncovered in a romantic humanity.
It's a wretched existence this life. It gives us vision of some serene and sweet beauty that is soon to await us. It shows us ideas of perfection. We feel we know who we were meant to be, and then in another second it slaps us across the face with our own depravity. We feel an urges within us that have no basis in rationality. We hold biological balances in design of our body that compel us to act without reason in order to maintain the state by which it is accustomed to surviving. It has no recognition of timing. It has no knowledge of narrative. It affords no grace to times for deviation. It insists upon itself to hold the greatest power over us and would afford our humanity no room for change.
I do not want to have it. I despise it, but I desire my humanity more. I want so bad to attain this vision of beauty I am able to see, but I do not feel I know how to traverse past my own barbarism to attain it! Should I then speak my own beauty into existence by the power of my tongue? But I know the wicked whip it truly is. I know how it relishes in its power to destroy, and I know should I let it reign freely to be whatever it shall have me be, it shall have me soon be destroyed. Perhaps in a moment my tongue may seem to hold my hope, but let this moment pass, I will soon hear it tell me words for my death and decay. It has no strength of true conviction that it might sustain me.
It may be true my tongue is no savage. It may be true, but I prefer the savagery that surges into my presence in feelings of imbalance far more than I prefer to hear the vile poison and curses being thrown out from the hellfire of my lips in moments of even the slightest perceived affliction. It holds no hope for me to find the beauty I wish for my humanity to be.
But I suppose because it knows the waters of destruction well, I must rely on it well to see my past my own doom. I suppose this is the case, but I do not wish for this journey in navigation to be the substance of my identity! To constantly see myself through these treacherous waters is an all consuming and untenable style of living. I can accomplish no work if I am constantly pulling myself to and fro to avoid my own destruction. I must rather recognize a destination in mind that I can keep who I am there even while much of my presence remains here.
But where could it be?! I know it not, and for this I feel a great sense of despair. I only know I wish it to be beautiful wherever it is. I only wish for it to be so. I have no sense of what beauty even is in the savagery of my brain. For I felt what it beautiful before, and I know how quickly it would overpower me, but I do not wish to be overpowered the animal that I am. Therefore what I want, I do not seek, and what I seek, I do not want. It's a miserable existence what I am. I know no deliverance from it yet.
Perhaps I will not know it so long as this heart still beats, but I only wish to know what it may have me see next. If it truly has compelled to me leave behind my romantic ways, what is it then compelling me to take on as a replacement? It seems to have recognized something more beautiful, but I have not seen it yet. I only wish that it would show me that I might focus on it and be free from this pain of not knowing the identity I desire to have.
It's because there is so much to do. There's so much potential activity. There's so many little tasks that need to be done and some of those things are even risky. Especially when I am venturing into new territory, I am taking on risk. Having a firm comprehension of what I am doing is just not feasible. Instead, I need to know who I am because that's easier to be sure of. Then I can stop being so overwhelmed by worry and all that sort of stuff. Also like annoyance too, maybe frustration. Like there's a lot of stuff I don't want to do because it's like why even bother? Why should I even care so much to go through with this?
Instead of trying to assess all this in the context of what I am doing, I feel it is way easier for my mind to process it in the context of who I am and how it relates to my identity. I really felt a major relief from pain thinking through it this way, but the problem is that relief had no substance. Meaning there was no substantial identity I could afford myself that could take on the various tasks I desire to accomplish. It was only the concept of an identity that provided me relief, but I had no formation of one in my head.
I did try to understand my identity in a historical analysis of my life. The best way to know who I am now is to consider who I was in the past. However, my past has been filled with escaping. I have been constantly getting away from who I am and where I was born to be. Ahh, okay writing this I realized I was really a romantic. This was the last thing I was, and I was sort of living out that identity by finding someone to be romantic towards. It was like I found a small space for myself for romantic expression where the pinnacle of who I desired to be could be experienced. What I found from this was I was incredibly unstable. An identity as a romantic did not fit me well, so I had to find out who I was another way.
Then I made a transition in that place. I said I no longer wished to experience the most romantic life possible but rather the most beautiful life. In this transition, I suppose I somehow found myself drawn to here. The idea of putting things to death compelled me, and I suppose then what I did was put to death the "romantic me". I ended my last connection to romanticism, and although I hope I made some error doing this for the sake of the person I cared for, I think it had to be done for the sake of my identity being able to fully transition.
Now I don't quite know what to transition to. I don't know what identity is most beautiful to me I suppose, but I know what I feel is left of me after having put the final remnants of my romanticism to death. All I feel I have left is my animal nature. I feel disgusted and in despair over it. There is no putting the animal in me to death so long as my lungs draw breath, and I hate my savagery far more than I hated the flaws I uncovered in a romantic humanity.
It's a wretched existence this life. It gives us vision of some serene and sweet beauty that is soon to await us. It shows us ideas of perfection. We feel we know who we were meant to be, and then in another second it slaps us across the face with our own depravity. We feel an urges within us that have no basis in rationality. We hold biological balances in design of our body that compel us to act without reason in order to maintain the state by which it is accustomed to surviving. It has no recognition of timing. It has no knowledge of narrative. It affords no grace to times for deviation. It insists upon itself to hold the greatest power over us and would afford our humanity no room for change.
I do not want to have it. I despise it, but I desire my humanity more. I want so bad to attain this vision of beauty I am able to see, but I do not feel I know how to traverse past my own barbarism to attain it! Should I then speak my own beauty into existence by the power of my tongue? But I know the wicked whip it truly is. I know how it relishes in its power to destroy, and I know should I let it reign freely to be whatever it shall have me be, it shall have me soon be destroyed. Perhaps in a moment my tongue may seem to hold my hope, but let this moment pass, I will soon hear it tell me words for my death and decay. It has no strength of true conviction that it might sustain me.
It may be true my tongue is no savage. It may be true, but I prefer the savagery that surges into my presence in feelings of imbalance far more than I prefer to hear the vile poison and curses being thrown out from the hellfire of my lips in moments of even the slightest perceived affliction. It holds no hope for me to find the beauty I wish for my humanity to be.
But I suppose because it knows the waters of destruction well, I must rely on it well to see my past my own doom. I suppose this is the case, but I do not wish for this journey in navigation to be the substance of my identity! To constantly see myself through these treacherous waters is an all consuming and untenable style of living. I can accomplish no work if I am constantly pulling myself to and fro to avoid my own destruction. I must rather recognize a destination in mind that I can keep who I am there even while much of my presence remains here.
But where could it be?! I know it not, and for this I feel a great sense of despair. I only know I wish it to be beautiful wherever it is. I only wish for it to be so. I have no sense of what beauty even is in the savagery of my brain. For I felt what it beautiful before, and I know how quickly it would overpower me, but I do not wish to be overpowered the animal that I am. Therefore what I want, I do not seek, and what I seek, I do not want. It's a miserable existence what I am. I know no deliverance from it yet.
Perhaps I will not know it so long as this heart still beats, but I only wish to know what it may have me see next. If it truly has compelled to me leave behind my romantic ways, what is it then compelling me to take on as a replacement? It seems to have recognized something more beautiful, but I have not seen it yet. I only wish that it would show me that I might focus on it and be free from this pain of not knowing the identity I desire to have.
