Start drinking. Dreams are just images in our brains that sometimes may mean something. You didn’t sleep yesterday and that’s why you slept tonight. It’s normal and there’s no one to blame. Ask yourself things like; what do you want to do? Why do you want to do it? What do you do? Why do you do it?
They say they are working on themselves… And when I feel this arrogant pride, this tamed rage from comparing myself to them; compassion pops up saying that it should be the answer. So, compassion.
Right thoughts. Always right thoughts.
Now you publish, you may think that what you write can be read. Therefore, you limit yourself to fit into the general opinion, to fit into the things that can be read.
Is this a new fear? Is it the same fear that doesn’t allow you to follow a daily routine? Why does public opinion matter? Why people used alias all over history? And why superheroes wear masks?
Is this embarrassment? Is it for showing parts of your real self to others? Is this vulnerability? Is this exposition of yourself what you are feeling as dangerous?
Why are other people perceived as dangerous? Are they really a threat for us? I guess they are, or at least they can be. Who is offering you jobs? Who is offering you love? Who is interchanging resources and sharing this planet with you?
Is this fear for survival? Is our brain designed to be scared of scarcity? To be afraid of the lack of resources? Hmmmm… Our brain may be designed to react in this way due to evolutionary learning, and it expresses it through emotions, through fears. Which is okay.
Therefore, compassion again.
Then, our next question in this list should be, is this all rational? Is it helping me to grow? To survive? Is it reducing my suffering? Is it making me a better person for the world? Is it helping me to be happy? To thrive? To flourish?
Is it the ultimate purpose of a human being to survive as a being? To survive as a species? To survive…? Am I a mere animal striving for life? Whatever the quality of my life is?
Or… Or…
Am I something else? Am I a being that doesn’t seek for the amount of life, but for the quality? Is surviving our utmost purpose? Or is it to help transform the world into a better place? To help people, making their lives better? Is the solution of our fears to overcome our individuality? Is it confronting them rationally? Will that make me start thinking that they are actually irrational reactions and that they hinder the ultimate aim of having a positive impact on this society, of offering the best of ourselves to the future?
Am I overcoming my fear of publishing through questions and writing? Or just toying around with some ideas and lots of answers that I completely ignore? Am I doing both? Does everything has an answer?
It has been twenty-two minutes of writing right now. And it can be valuable for twenty-two years and last for twenty-two centuries. Is it all of this worthwhile? Should I keep on writing or focus on a life that I don’t know what to do with it? A life that I don’t know how to enjoy…
It happens to me those days that I oversleep and I wake up thinking that it is two hours earlier than the actual time. Those days that I don’t set the alarm. Those days that, since I don’t have anything to do, or I cannot think about anything better to do, I carry out my morning routine and the resolutions that I was procrastinating.
Drink water, write, stretch, workout… So far, I have just done part of the first two and I have the will of doing some of the others. But, will the urge of publishing what is already written hinder my intentions and change my future? Will my body complain about not treating it correctly?
It is Denmark. I sleep on a couch when I don’t do it on the floor. I write on a small bookshelf filled with clothes because in this room there is just a low table. I should exercise more, stretching more, publishing more, write more, read more, and study more. Yesterday, I loved a lot. It makes me wonder if that is the only reason for not being in a depressive mood today.
It is raining.
It can be a baby; a half Philippine in her thirties; her boyfriend, the Zimbabwean teacher awarded for his lifetime’s work; or his mother, who turns out to be the baby’s mother’s mother, that just seeks for someone to speak with.
The mother and the daughter, twice. From the granddaughter to the grandmother. Love is intergenerational, interracial. It is all about speaking, about looking into each other’s eyes, and feel that we do it for the others, that we don’t do it for ourselves, that we are going further than our limited being, our limited life.
The time is over. Half an hour is gone. Going further than ourselves…? Was that what this is all about? Have I written all this thanks to not looking to my smartphone just right after waking up?
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