We are all reflections. Of someone. Of some thing. We are a story of the mind, the mind of others and the mind within our selves.
Our minds create the glass on which we see ourselves, as well as the characters we create that dance along the mirrored pillars of our lives. We focus on the surface of the waters on which we sail, our vessels churning according to the ripples that we see, our visions distorted by the fog of our own design as we wretch helplessly in the storms we ourselves give rise to. This world, this existence, is ours, and we have given it over to the greatest demons ever made.
Ourselves.
We are the victim and the abuser, the tortured and the torturer. We are a reflection of ourselves somehow believing we are powerless to change the story. We kneel before false idols of our own creation and then wonder in bewilderment when they crush us. We worship a paper god we have created in our own image and we allow it to master us instead of the other way around. We give the power that defines us over to others, and then rebel against the very thing we have forgotten is ours.
It’s both empowering and frightening when you swallow the red pill. It’s no wonder so few of us choose to take it. We like the idea of something else being in control, of some divinity guiding our lives. We love the idea that our choice ends at following some rules set upon us by some power other than ourselves. We want to feel in control while actually not being in control, helpful while helpless, sane while practicing the very definition of insanity.
It’s hard to claim full responsibility for the story. It’s difficult to realize the power we are, the power we have, as the truth. We’ve been lulled into such a sense of security that we don’t want to give up our blankies in exchange for the real power of who we are. So, we bury ourselves deep in the fabric, hoping that the warmth we feel never ends without ever truly realizing it is our own heat we are feeling.
Yes, it’s scary. This security comes at a price. We call that price stress, suffering, and disease. At some point some of us must ask, “is that price worth it?”
I’m sick of the stress. I’m sick of the suffering. I’m sick of the disease, as ironic as that sounds. Most of all, I’m sick of the legacy I am leaving my children. Do I curse them with the same old suffering created by the same old insanity? Do I give them the lessons taught to me by my parents and my society that have never, ever, ever worked?
Or do I try to teach them something else, something pretty well untried in a society where success is measuring by things and thriving is measured in dollar signs?
I believe that the next American revolution may very well be a bloodless one where the individual recognizes his own power, reclaims it, and rebels against the shackles we have allowed others to place on us.The next “shot heard around the world” may very well be a silent one where the shooter lives minimally and the target is those things that keep us stress-free. The forward lines in the next battle may be drawn between those selling it all and those giving it all away.
“So you think that money is the root of all evil? Have you ever asked what is the root of money?” ~ Atlas Shrugged
I am taking a hard look at what is creating suffering in my life. Attachment. Adherence to a vision not mine. Worshipping false idols (or worshipping any idol for that matter). I’m diving deep beyond the glass, beneath the surface, trying to find the root of the root. I don’t want to suffer anymore and, more importantly, I want to give my children a basis for non-suffering in their own lives. So, I’ve begun dumping my tea into the harbor, and I’m preparing for the only revolution that matters, the one within me.
It all comes down what I want to see when I look in the mirror and what I want to find on my open sea. Once I have that realization it will time to unfurl the sails and let the wind take me away.
Peace.