Over the years, in my search to find the true me, I have been forced to look outside of me. Shifting my focus from watching myself to watching others. Like a poem I read on Face book. Where the poet says, the inside me stepped outside of me and watched.
Not in a rude obtrusive way. Not judging or studying. But then paying attention to people around. Trying to hear the words that gets caught somewhere between, their thought and their tongue. Or maybe the unfinished sentence. Or maybe the ominous silence that screams.
Then I also try hard to understand that sideways glance, the twitch of the eyelid that betrays disappointment when the lips part to smile. Sometimes it is sheer joy that comes in a second and disappears, and you wonder if you saw it at all. Then there is the eyes trying to look away, trying not to get caught between a stare afraid to reveal too much.
But that is not all. Then you have your body bending over. Hands reaching out to hug, same time pushing the body away as far as possible, from any real contact. The gesticulating arms trying to replace words. The touch that says everything. When a hand is placed gently on a shoulder when the occassion doesn’t demand it. The gentle pat. The harsh grip that loosens almost immediately, but alas the damage already done.
As my astral body roamed the streets of silent thoughts. I did wonder. Do we need words at all? Will words qualify your thoughts and put that legal stamp which confirms that yes that what you thought you saw in my eyes is exactly what I have to say.
And like the poet scurries back to his inside. I did too. Feeling safer. Inside of me than stepping outside.
The jungle of pregnant thoughts and straying glances. The traffic jam of flaying hands and pursed lips. The hideous shouts and screams of silence and the chocking of the unspoken words....Thank God we have words. It just makes life easier. Camouflages all that intensity which renders us breathless and rushing for air.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Fred Quimby, How could you?
There's a rat in my kitchen. and I need brilliant suggestions to exterminate the rodent. I am open to all kinds of devious, cruel and inhuman (oops! we are talking about a rat here) I mean inrodent methods. I just need to kill it. Whatever you suggest has to guarantee instantaneous death.
Between. I have tried RAtol...the rodent's too smart. It just runs past it. It has sneaked away, everything I have delicatley placed on the rat trap. Ranging from cake to banana....and considering Jerry's craving for cheese, I tried Cheddar as well. Believe me that is a just a myth propogated by Fred Quimby. Rats liking cheese is a big fat lie. As big as the rat in my kitchen. They don't like it. To make matters worse, my five year old son looks at me in disgust, each time I suggest the rat's assassination. Thanks to TOm and Jerry. Jerry and everything that resembles Jerry is a hero. Though he doesn't say it, I can see it in his eyes, 'My mother is a witch. Rat killing witch.
Fred Quimby! how could you?? My son thinks i am the worst! and all because of you.
Between. I have tried RAtol...the rodent's too smart. It just runs past it. It has sneaked away, everything I have delicatley placed on the rat trap. Ranging from cake to banana....and considering Jerry's craving for cheese, I tried Cheddar as well. Believe me that is a just a myth propogated by Fred Quimby. Rats liking cheese is a big fat lie. As big as the rat in my kitchen. They don't like it. To make matters worse, my five year old son looks at me in disgust, each time I suggest the rat's assassination. Thanks to TOm and Jerry. Jerry and everything that resembles Jerry is a hero. Though he doesn't say it, I can see it in his eyes, 'My mother is a witch. Rat killing witch.
Fred Quimby! how could you?? My son thinks i am the worst! and all because of you.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
A gooey yellow monster called lacking.
Some days you get off the bed just because you have to. And I have wondered how my day would turn out if I decide to stay in bed. In all of my 34 years on earth I have not tried that. Something as simple as staying in bed, even when I want to, seems like such a luxury. And every waking moment is spend wondering, would I rather be in bed, than doing the laundry right now. Would I rather be under my blanket than wash the dishes? Would I rather dream my impossible dreams than sit here and write blogs.
The phone rings incessantly. I let it ring for some more time before I decide to pick it up. Even that seemed like an effort today. Every task at hand turns out to be Herculean. I just had to get out of this terrible feeling that was there in the pits of my stomach...or somewhere deeper. But it’s inside somewhere, can’t get a hold on exactly where it all begins....but as it rises the feeling turns into a physical presence, and I begin to taste it. It is bitter. So bitter that saliva gathers and it seeps through, my lips. I run to nearest basin to spit it out. Its nausea, I realise. I linger on near the basin. The dark presence starts small from the pits within...and rises up slowly gaining momentum and turning into this fluid monster. When it reaches the tongue I taste the bitterness. This time, it does more than seep through my pursed lips. It forces my mouth open wide. And out comes the yellow mass of fluid, bitter and sour. It’s bile.
With all of it vomited, I assumed that would be the end of my melancholy. Unfortunately it did not stop there. Though, the feeling does not turn into the yellow liquid monster I could still feel its looming presence. It was down there somewhere, bidding time. Waiting for the opportune moment to let its ugly face show.
I had to get to the bottom of it all. And get out of this wretched lethargy, pointlessness, and boredom. I was kind of sure the looming yellow monster was nurtured by these very same emotions. And benign as it would seem initially, it grew into this large liquid mass that couldn’t be swallowed. It had to be vomited, taking with it every small ounce of energy and optimism I had left.
So I had to put on my miner’s cap (the one with torch fixed on it) and a spade and got into the lift that miners use to get down to the bottom. So I did as well. As I went down, down, on either sides I could see the events of the day, week, month, as if, on a big screen. Actually it was quite an interesting ride. It was like one of those novel joyrides in Disney land perhaps. I looked hard and clear to find the hitch the root of it all...then there hidden behind all joyful facades was the stain of the yellow monster. Like a small yellow spill on the ground it lay....I am lacking!!! lacking was the yellow fluid, and it just grew bigger and bigger.
Some days the lacking is so conspicuous. Like today. On other days it’s forgotten. Like the days I am busy, overwhelmed with the volume of tasks at hand. Weighed down by guilt that accompanies working mothers. Like a loyal friend. There to remind you promptly of all your errors, shortcomings, absentmindedness, and most often selfishness. Beset by guilt it is interesting how I can forget my lacking.
But like once a dear friend read out to me....one day on the phone...the lacking is not a bad thing. It is this lacking that urges us to seek and probe....this lacking is our birthright. This lacking is what makes us human and hungry.....
But the challenge is to understand that there is an inherent lacking. It is just there. And not to try and fill it with wrong things rather, seek for the only thing that can fill the vacuum.
Do I make sense???
The phone rings incessantly. I let it ring for some more time before I decide to pick it up. Even that seemed like an effort today. Every task at hand turns out to be Herculean. I just had to get out of this terrible feeling that was there in the pits of my stomach...or somewhere deeper. But it’s inside somewhere, can’t get a hold on exactly where it all begins....but as it rises the feeling turns into a physical presence, and I begin to taste it. It is bitter. So bitter that saliva gathers and it seeps through, my lips. I run to nearest basin to spit it out. Its nausea, I realise. I linger on near the basin. The dark presence starts small from the pits within...and rises up slowly gaining momentum and turning into this fluid monster. When it reaches the tongue I taste the bitterness. This time, it does more than seep through my pursed lips. It forces my mouth open wide. And out comes the yellow mass of fluid, bitter and sour. It’s bile.
With all of it vomited, I assumed that would be the end of my melancholy. Unfortunately it did not stop there. Though, the feeling does not turn into the yellow liquid monster I could still feel its looming presence. It was down there somewhere, bidding time. Waiting for the opportune moment to let its ugly face show.
I had to get to the bottom of it all. And get out of this wretched lethargy, pointlessness, and boredom. I was kind of sure the looming yellow monster was nurtured by these very same emotions. And benign as it would seem initially, it grew into this large liquid mass that couldn’t be swallowed. It had to be vomited, taking with it every small ounce of energy and optimism I had left.
So I had to put on my miner’s cap (the one with torch fixed on it) and a spade and got into the lift that miners use to get down to the bottom. So I did as well. As I went down, down, on either sides I could see the events of the day, week, month, as if, on a big screen. Actually it was quite an interesting ride. It was like one of those novel joyrides in Disney land perhaps. I looked hard and clear to find the hitch the root of it all...then there hidden behind all joyful facades was the stain of the yellow monster. Like a small yellow spill on the ground it lay....I am lacking!!! lacking was the yellow fluid, and it just grew bigger and bigger.
Some days the lacking is so conspicuous. Like today. On other days it’s forgotten. Like the days I am busy, overwhelmed with the volume of tasks at hand. Weighed down by guilt that accompanies working mothers. Like a loyal friend. There to remind you promptly of all your errors, shortcomings, absentmindedness, and most often selfishness. Beset by guilt it is interesting how I can forget my lacking.
But like once a dear friend read out to me....one day on the phone...the lacking is not a bad thing. It is this lacking that urges us to seek and probe....this lacking is our birthright. This lacking is what makes us human and hungry.....
But the challenge is to understand that there is an inherent lacking. It is just there. And not to try and fill it with wrong things rather, seek for the only thing that can fill the vacuum.
Do I make sense???
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The wind in my hair...sand on my feet...song in my heart....love in my soul
I live in a small town, beside the sea. There are plenty of wide open spaces, lot of fresh air and the blue sea, from every vantage point. From the time I was young I’ve always preferred the picnic to the sea than the drive uphill. My dad’s side of the family had this fascination with hills, the chilly winds and plantations. With my mother’s side, it was always the sea. My maternal grandfather even owned a boat and had a house facing the sea. My rather adventurous uncles managed to get themselves a kayak. Those days it was a rare thing. To own a kayak in Kerala. (There was no need for it ofcourse, when we have kettuvallams) But for some reason they thought it was cool. And believe me it was. It’s very different from a kettuvallam. The technique of manoeuvring the boat is a different ball-game totally. Both required different skills, and one was not better than the other. But perhaps more novel because it was ‘foreign’.
Coming back to the romance with the sea, though all of us (my siblings) like to claim that our predominant genes are from our larger-than-life almost legendary paternal grandfather, my enthralment with the waters must be a genetic thing, that i inherited from my maternal strain.
And my absorption with the sea continued to grow as I grew out of adolescence, puberty, teenage, and early youth. My every fantasy had the sea along with it. My every day-dream featured the deep. At fifteen when I was this gawky teenager, with curly short hair, braces and stick like legs, not to mention dark and waif-like, I used to imagine that I would one day become this nymph. I would see myself (the model in the Old Spice ad that used to come on television in the early eighties). I would imagine that it I would look like this suntanned beauty with long straight hair. But even then, I preferred my hair black(the Old Spice model was a blonde) and in my dreams even though I had this awesome figure I still wore my sarong, never cared much for the bikinis. I would emerge from the waters, and slowly walk towards the shore. ...never got to dream further than that...but like I was saying it had the sea in the back ground.
And as I grew older, though I never became the Old Spice model, not even close(my legs changed from sticks to cellulite endowed). My reverie changed drastically. But the sea faithfully remained. I saw myself as this average built person who was happy about how she looked, even though she wore shapeless shorts and absolutely unflattering T-shirt, not bothered about her unwaxed legs, but just happy to be...with the wind in her hair, the sand on her feet, hands stretched out wide. The smile on her face reflected the simple joy of who she has become, and everything she believed in. Happy with life and most of all, always surrounded by this love-that-knows-no-bounds, kind of a feeling. It was picture perfect. This has remained my day dream till date. And the sea still remains in the back ground.
However , I may one day build a house on a cliff-top and have my very own, room-with-a-view. I may grow old to become a grandmother (still with my sarong) who walks the beach barefoot collecting shells with my grandchildren. And I pray that the sea still remains. Azure and blue.
Even if I mange to do all that, it’s the scene from the day dream that continues to fascinate me. It’s my perfect picture postcard. A snapshot frozen in time, of a life well lived and living.... (Sometimes I do feel the person I become when I am here (BlogSpot) is pretty close to what I want to be on the beach on that perfect day. )
Don’t know if it’s merely a fancy, a wishful thinking perhaps maybe even a distant dream. But I have made this promise to myself....the next time I am on the beach....my day dream will become a reality. Even if it means it will take another year, or a few, or maybe even a decade to visit the beach again!
Coming back to the romance with the sea, though all of us (my siblings) like to claim that our predominant genes are from our larger-than-life almost legendary paternal grandfather, my enthralment with the waters must be a genetic thing, that i inherited from my maternal strain.
And my absorption with the sea continued to grow as I grew out of adolescence, puberty, teenage, and early youth. My every fantasy had the sea along with it. My every day-dream featured the deep. At fifteen when I was this gawky teenager, with curly short hair, braces and stick like legs, not to mention dark and waif-like, I used to imagine that I would one day become this nymph. I would see myself (the model in the Old Spice ad that used to come on television in the early eighties). I would imagine that it I would look like this suntanned beauty with long straight hair. But even then, I preferred my hair black(the Old Spice model was a blonde) and in my dreams even though I had this awesome figure I still wore my sarong, never cared much for the bikinis. I would emerge from the waters, and slowly walk towards the shore. ...never got to dream further than that...but like I was saying it had the sea in the back ground.
And as I grew older, though I never became the Old Spice model, not even close(my legs changed from sticks to cellulite endowed). My reverie changed drastically. But the sea faithfully remained. I saw myself as this average built person who was happy about how she looked, even though she wore shapeless shorts and absolutely unflattering T-shirt, not bothered about her unwaxed legs, but just happy to be...with the wind in her hair, the sand on her feet, hands stretched out wide. The smile on her face reflected the simple joy of who she has become, and everything she believed in. Happy with life and most of all, always surrounded by this love-that-knows-no-bounds, kind of a feeling. It was picture perfect. This has remained my day dream till date. And the sea still remains in the back ground.
However , I may one day build a house on a cliff-top and have my very own, room-with-a-view. I may grow old to become a grandmother (still with my sarong) who walks the beach barefoot collecting shells with my grandchildren. And I pray that the sea still remains. Azure and blue.
Even if I mange to do all that, it’s the scene from the day dream that continues to fascinate me. It’s my perfect picture postcard. A snapshot frozen in time, of a life well lived and living.... (Sometimes I do feel the person I become when I am here (BlogSpot) is pretty close to what I want to be on the beach on that perfect day. )
Don’t know if it’s merely a fancy, a wishful thinking perhaps maybe even a distant dream. But I have made this promise to myself....the next time I am on the beach....my day dream will become a reality. Even if it means it will take another year, or a few, or maybe even a decade to visit the beach again!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Finding Joshua
It’s the other side of the Red Sea; Moses has his hands raised to the heavens in prayer. With his gaze skyward, he seems lost in this string of undecipherable murmurings. A monotone. The murmuring ends and dollops of air is sucked in only to be followed by the next string. Joshua is standing a step below. He sees the drops of sweat running down Moses’s brow. As he looks at Moses with concern he notices that the tired old man can barely keep his hands raised. It looked as if Moses was pulling some invisible lever in the sky. ‘God must have given him access code to that lever.’ ‘Maybe the code keeps changing every ten seconds and those strange mumbling must be the code.’ ‘He must be saying it aloud so that he doesn’t forget.’ ‘Like how I call out to each of my sheep loudly. So that I don’t forget their names.’ ‘Isfahan, Aaron, Ebola, Tehila.....’ thought Joshua, as he watched Moses intently. His heart went out to the old man. But this is the only way the sea shall part. The people haven’t all reached the right side. ‘Will he be able to hold on till they all get to this side? Is it his raised hands, that’s keeping the sea parted?’ ‘I think it is. And I think he needs help.’
His eyes cringes as the setting sun lets the deep orange rays fall ever so gently on to him. Joshua once again sees the strain etched on the old man’s face. ‘I better help him’ , mutters Joshua under his breath, So Joshua rushes down the hill to find some sticks to support the old man’s tiring arms. He rushes back with two sturdy looking drift wood. ‘Must’ve floated ashore from some wreckage’, thought Joshua. He fixes the wood right under the old man’s armpit. ‘That should give him some support now' muttered Joshua to himself. But what was meant to be merely whisper came out a little too loud. Enough to be heard by Moses, who suddenly realised why he was feeling stronger. His eyes brimmed with tears and it glistened like diamonds in the twilight. Joshua smiled and nodded at Moses. The old man went back to his murmuring trance. The sea remained parted. The people got to the other side unscathed.
This is one particular part of the bible I see in Technicolor like a movie. My rendition of the scenes, are a little more detailed than the ‘Ten Commandments’. I see this in my mind’s theatre almost every other day. After this I remember all those who God send to part the seas for me.
When I had to get admission in college with my rather pathetic mark list, Eddy parted the sea for me.
When I was in a sticky mess of controversies and mishaps, Manoj parted the sea for me. When I longed to go to Austria, Rajesh (my love) parted the sea. God send me several Moses....and if there was a Moses, there must’ve been a Joshua....and I am trying to find my Joshua....
His eyes cringes as the setting sun lets the deep orange rays fall ever so gently on to him. Joshua once again sees the strain etched on the old man’s face. ‘I better help him’ , mutters Joshua under his breath, So Joshua rushes down the hill to find some sticks to support the old man’s tiring arms. He rushes back with two sturdy looking drift wood. ‘Must’ve floated ashore from some wreckage’, thought Joshua. He fixes the wood right under the old man’s armpit. ‘That should give him some support now' muttered Joshua to himself. But what was meant to be merely whisper came out a little too loud. Enough to be heard by Moses, who suddenly realised why he was feeling stronger. His eyes brimmed with tears and it glistened like diamonds in the twilight. Joshua smiled and nodded at Moses. The old man went back to his murmuring trance. The sea remained parted. The people got to the other side unscathed.
This is one particular part of the bible I see in Technicolor like a movie. My rendition of the scenes, are a little more detailed than the ‘Ten Commandments’. I see this in my mind’s theatre almost every other day. After this I remember all those who God send to part the seas for me.
When I had to get admission in college with my rather pathetic mark list, Eddy parted the sea for me.
When I was in a sticky mess of controversies and mishaps, Manoj parted the sea for me. When I longed to go to Austria, Rajesh (my love) parted the sea. God send me several Moses....and if there was a Moses, there must’ve been a Joshua....and I am trying to find my Joshua....
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Thank yous and Sorrys
Let me begin by saying that this post is dedicated to my friend who pushed me into blogging.
Now I go on to other facts. Is it always necessary to bother with nice-cities like thank you and sorry, with friends?
As the ode goes, friends are there for you, in good times and in bad times. A shoulder to cry on. Among friends there are no thank yous and sorrys. There are so many. If I start writing it all down, I might be guilty of plagiarising every card on Archie’s gallery shelves. It’s not that I think I am above these cards. How much ever I laugh at these cards, when I get one I do feel good about being acknowledged somehow.
Therefore I think to be thankful is one thing and to say thank you is another thing. Being thankful is a state of being. You can be thankful to a friend, situation, stranger perhaps even to God. Also you can live in a thankful state all your life. there is much beauty in that. But to actually say the words is a different ball game totally.
I was walking by the road the other day and a bull rushed towards me. I was caught in the space between the two horns and thankfully didn’t have the horn going right through my intestine with my innards hanging out from the other side. Who was I being thankful to here? To the bull?
I was just thankful for my fortunate situation and maybe even to my guardian angels and to God who appointed them....and to the saints who were praying for me....and the list could go on. Maybe even to the bull, whose intention was probably not to attack but to just scare me. And I could be thankful, that all it did was SCARE THE LIFE OUT OF ME!!! I did say ‘Thank God!’ more than once.
So the question is really do we have to say 'thank you' to our friends or just be thankful that they are there for you.
All of you who think we have to say the word do write a comment in my blog.
Now to what I think, after all this is my blog. I think, thank you is a word that has to be used more often. Something we often forget to use. It is just not used enough.
IT’s about two things. Firstly, you are aware that you are thankful, for better or worse. Secondly, you are humbled that it’s not just you who is responsible for this blissful state of realisation. Also that this state could not have been achieved if not for the other. (There seem to be more than two reasons) Thirdly, you are acknowledging the person’s goodness and admitting it to yourself. Fourthly, it is good manners, just like how you were taught in Kindergarten.
So back to the ode. Friends may say that they don’t want to be thanked. But that’s just another way of saying welcome. Please go ahead and thank people.
Now about saying the word ‘sorry’. Well! The above rule applies for that as well. Now do you want me to go over the whole thing again?
Oh! By the way I forgot. Thank you dear friend, for being my muse!!!
And sorry I took so long to say that.
Now I go on to other facts. Is it always necessary to bother with nice-cities like thank you and sorry, with friends?
As the ode goes, friends are there for you, in good times and in bad times. A shoulder to cry on. Among friends there are no thank yous and sorrys. There are so many. If I start writing it all down, I might be guilty of plagiarising every card on Archie’s gallery shelves. It’s not that I think I am above these cards. How much ever I laugh at these cards, when I get one I do feel good about being acknowledged somehow.
Therefore I think to be thankful is one thing and to say thank you is another thing. Being thankful is a state of being. You can be thankful to a friend, situation, stranger perhaps even to God. Also you can live in a thankful state all your life. there is much beauty in that. But to actually say the words is a different ball game totally.
I was walking by the road the other day and a bull rushed towards me. I was caught in the space between the two horns and thankfully didn’t have the horn going right through my intestine with my innards hanging out from the other side. Who was I being thankful to here? To the bull?
I was just thankful for my fortunate situation and maybe even to my guardian angels and to God who appointed them....and to the saints who were praying for me....and the list could go on. Maybe even to the bull, whose intention was probably not to attack but to just scare me. And I could be thankful, that all it did was SCARE THE LIFE OUT OF ME!!! I did say ‘Thank God!’ more than once.
So the question is really do we have to say 'thank you' to our friends or just be thankful that they are there for you.
All of you who think we have to say the word do write a comment in my blog.
Now to what I think, after all this is my blog. I think, thank you is a word that has to be used more often. Something we often forget to use. It is just not used enough.
IT’s about two things. Firstly, you are aware that you are thankful, for better or worse. Secondly, you are humbled that it’s not just you who is responsible for this blissful state of realisation. Also that this state could not have been achieved if not for the other. (There seem to be more than two reasons) Thirdly, you are acknowledging the person’s goodness and admitting it to yourself. Fourthly, it is good manners, just like how you were taught in Kindergarten.
So back to the ode. Friends may say that they don’t want to be thanked. But that’s just another way of saying welcome. Please go ahead and thank people.
Now about saying the word ‘sorry’. Well! The above rule applies for that as well. Now do you want me to go over the whole thing again?
Oh! By the way I forgot. Thank you dear friend, for being my muse!!!
And sorry I took so long to say that.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Duped by Ego
I decided I had to blog today. I just had to. Something compels me to express my thoughts. Talk. Expound. Offer free advice. Preach. Admonish. Tell you how wrong you are and how you should really do it. But I realise that when I do all that I could turn out to be this avoidable person. The kind we don’t want to stick around with. The one we avoid. The kind that makes us want to turn around and walk the other way.
But there is always the possibility that I may even look a lot like someone who actually has something to say. Something that may after all make sense. Something that may help you. Something that may surprise you for depth, beauty and wisdom.
Or I may simply resemble somebody who is lonely hasn’t talked to someone in a long time. Someone who needs to be listened to. Someone you can help perhaps. With a little bit of attention. A kind word maybe. Someone whose life may change just by your words.
I guess what I am trying to say is....I can be all of this sometimes or some of it in the least. We all can be. Our vulnerable moments make us....lonely, weak, and shallow boring. But our better days make us kind, loving, wise and helpful. Some God forsaken days make us proud, arrogant and full of condescendence. We can be all of this sometimes. Some of it most of the time, and none of it rarely.
It took me a while to be humbled by the fact that.....I may not be as good I think I am to somebody. It did disturb me for a while. The fact that I may seem ‘not’ good. It took some more while to accept what is really disturbing me, is not whether I am really good or not. But what I ‘seem’ to people.
It humbles me even more to understand that my ego is so clever that it fools me all the time. Blinds me from the it’s (the ego’s) existence within. It’s such a fine line. Don’t let the ego dupe you.
Be good. For it’s simply the best way to be.
But there is always the possibility that I may even look a lot like someone who actually has something to say. Something that may after all make sense. Something that may help you. Something that may surprise you for depth, beauty and wisdom.
Or I may simply resemble somebody who is lonely hasn’t talked to someone in a long time. Someone who needs to be listened to. Someone you can help perhaps. With a little bit of attention. A kind word maybe. Someone whose life may change just by your words.
I guess what I am trying to say is....I can be all of this sometimes or some of it in the least. We all can be. Our vulnerable moments make us....lonely, weak, and shallow boring. But our better days make us kind, loving, wise and helpful. Some God forsaken days make us proud, arrogant and full of condescendence. We can be all of this sometimes. Some of it most of the time, and none of it rarely.
It took me a while to be humbled by the fact that.....I may not be as good I think I am to somebody. It did disturb me for a while. The fact that I may seem ‘not’ good. It took some more while to accept what is really disturbing me, is not whether I am really good or not. But what I ‘seem’ to people.
It humbles me even more to understand that my ego is so clever that it fools me all the time. Blinds me from the it’s (the ego’s) existence within. It’s such a fine line. Don’t let the ego dupe you.
Be good. For it’s simply the best way to be.
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