by sarah endsley
Iâ€™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 youâ€™ve seen it, you canâ€™t pretend you havenâ€™t. Things are not as they once were. The effort to convince oneâ€™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 youâ€™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 â€œtimeâ€â€¦
What we believe is true, for the most part, though we tend to disagree about that. Seek and find, seek and findâ€”
For every action an equal and opposite reactionâ€”
The show goes on.
Truth is, I tire of my body. My â€œseparateâ€ consciousness, suggesting and affirming in the same breath that I am not youâ€”that we are different. Thereâ€™s good, and thereâ€™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 itâ€™s not, that would be fine. We endure. We are impermanent.
More than anything, Iâ€™ve wanted to learn. Most often, Iâ€™ve repeatedly made the same mistakes. And yet, it helpsâ€¦ I can still smile. All is not horror, not in the least. Unexpectedly, I love and am loved. Things happenâ€”it is never truly still, or silent.
But we should have been more, done more, known, seen, heard moreâ€¦ 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 canâ€™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 caveâ€”
Going to the movies, walking in the park.
If you never walk in the park, youâ€™ll never hear the mournful saxophone.
You wonâ€™t remember being 22.
It would be alright to forget in the interest of being all-encompassing. But without the details, itâ€™s all a blur.
So here we are. Observers of fragments, almost knowing each other, almost realizing what weâ€™ve missed.
The space to each otherâ€™s absence.
I am not moved, and moving, all the same. Without the audience, there is no show.
0 thoughts on “autobiography”
beautiful piece. very philosophical–I like it. One thing I do disagree with: Once a person has seen the truth, he can pretend he hasn’t.
I agree with Joe, but think “truth” is the experience that unfolds in our process of “almost” knowing one another. That’s really at the core of human life, and you’ve expressed it beautifully.