autobiography

autobiography
by sarah endsley
I’m just here to see the show. Waiting for the curtain. Pretending that time exists, and things can stop, and go.
Some of my reactions are positive, others negative, all meaningless. I used to want the truth: I could, I was convinced, handle it.
Some time ago the truth was shown to me. It was at once ugly and perfect. Handle it, I did.
The problem is, once you’ve seen it, you can’t pretend you haven’t. Things are not as they once were. The effort to convince one’s self that anything is of value becomes enormous. Nothing is valuable, in and of itself. Not your mother. Not your dog. Nor clean air, or the absence of cancer.
Your presentation might suffer, once you’ve seen the truth. You might feel empowered, and recognize your godhood. You could be forever humbled, and refuse to speak.
In this sense, the truth is disappointing.
Still, one must occupy the “time”…
What we believe is true, for the most part, though we tend to disagree about that. Seek and find, seek and find—
For every action an equal and opposite reaction—
The show goes on.
Truth is, I tire of my body. My “separate” consciousness, suggesting and affirming in the same breath that I am not you—that we are different. There’s good, and there’s evil. And yet both, and neither.
I guess, to someone, somewhere, it was important that we experience pain, and know failure. I wonder, on occasion, if life is an examination. A pre-requisite. If it’s not, that would be fine. We endure. We are impermanent.
More than anything, I’ve wanted to learn. Most often, I’ve repeatedly made the same mistakes. And yet, it helps… I can still smile. All is not horror, not in the least. Unexpectedly, I love and am loved. Things happen—it is never truly still, or silent.
But we should have been more, done more, known, seen, heard more… we are primitive. We are vengeful, and small.
Having seen the truth, I discarded the appropriate. My highest self is present, and calls, though I can’t always hear it.
It is difficult to be certain of things. But inaction begets nothing but the same.
I worry that I spent so much time admiring others I forgot that I, too, am admirable. Sometimes, I do what feels right. Sometimes, right now, tonight.
That is why I am leaving my fancy beige cave—
Going to the movies, walking in the park.
If you never walk in the park, you’ll never hear the mournful saxophone.
You won’t remember being 22.
It would be alright to forget in the interest of being all-encompassing. But without the details, it’s all a blur.
So here we are. Observers of fragments, almost knowing each other, almost realizing what we’ve missed.
The space to each other’s absence.
I am not moved, and moving, all the same. Without the audience, there is no show.