I'm eight. Sitting in a corner of the living room, predawn spirit hours. Contemplating six years of asking - yet no one knows - no answers come. Certainly these thoughts are everyone's. Certainly. But no. Awareness, it seems, requires discomfort - and most spend their lives avoiding it.
Today, I sit in the dark predawn, outside, all senses engulfed in the live. Memory turns to a recent conversation discussing the need of filling time by finding "retards" in the airport. I make no comment. Knowing this behavior wants validation. Something I can neither give nor need to.
Total lack of awareness always wants validation. It's greedy. Greedy hoards. Demanding more, without ever acknowledging its current inventory of worth, choosing rather to sit on its innate value, than use it to feed and enrich its life. King of the hill. Yelling at anyone that will listen, "Look what I have, that I have done nothing with." Pearls before swine. True squander.
You are a fool if you think I speak from whence I do not come. "Leaking" for most my life - throwing my gifts to any beggar - indiscriminate, needy, unaware.
Even now, after decades of repairing and patching holes, I doubt my mind's visitors. Old thoughts cloaked in "new" perspectives. The discomfort of doubt, the only cure. Otherwise, feelings become faith. Faith kills creativity - the curiosity of questioning; stops perfecting toward the divine; insists others - anyone but me - dictate my life.
