One of the hardest things we can do as humans is admit to ourselves about how we really feel. But sometimes even admitting it is not enough; not enough to find a purpose and not enough to get onto the right path again.
For some reason we need a constant reminder of why we should be happy. And what does that mean anyway? Everything is relative after all... we can be grateful for what we have, the opportunities we have been given, but it doesn't mean we will be happy. And that is the curse of being human, of being conscious and aware.
Almost exactly a year ago, I lost something that had huge meaning in my life. It had a profound impact on me, knocked me off balance. Since then I feel like I've been living a surreal life, memories are hazy, sometimes I don't even believe it was me. I have been regaining my footing, but I acknowledge now that where I am heading off to is not where I used to be.
Don't get me wrong. Yes, the loss was sad, and sad is not even really the right word to describe it. It hurt like nothing had ever hurt before, and the pain changed me. But I don't regret it. And this is where things are important... no matter what happens, you have to understand and accept the part you played in it. You must admit that things happen for a reason. You cannot blame yourself.
Things weren't right for a long time, and there was no way to fix them. But this is what happens when we hold on to things that are broken. They become toxic, they start to poison your life, but you hold on. You hold on because of the sentimental value, because of its meaning. These are the things that separate us from machines, from animals. Empty, rotten energies become the centre of our lives, and we cannot give them up until they are wrenched from us. We are forced to let them go, desperate and pathetic, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters.
So how honest can we be with ourselves? Can we admit that we are hurt, or that we feel empty? Or would we rather fill the gaps in, with other temporary things? I think we are master liars- but to ourselves. We deceive ourselves into believing we are who we want to be, that even the idea of being honest with the self seems quite ridiculous. I think that even in moments when we think we are being bitterly honest, admitting to ourselves we are nothing more than we really are, we are still fulfilling an image in our heads of ourselves- the “honest” person.
We are ever-changing beings, so fickle, so unclear. Extreme emotional situations especially can easily deter us from our paths... “there's someone in my head, but it's not me”.
