Are We All Liars?

I just can't help but think we're all lying through our crooked teeth.

I know I am. I know I am. I know I'm also doing my best, I know I'm also doing all I fucking can to be exactly who I am, and not who I think I ought to be. But I also know that I'm disingenuous in moments. I know integrity is not something you just are but something you become, and stray from, and find your way back to. It isn't so constant, the same way nothing is.

I'm just sad and unfulfilled and at exactly the same time so utterly grateful and happy and in awe of everything, even my sadness and unfulfilledness. It's as if I've become so okay with everything, it's dangerous. That's the risk of accepting your feelings, you're less moved by them. The more you sit in them the less you feel you have to hide, but in the hiding I was becoming someone, messy, and now I'm just accepting someone, clear, and it's odd. What if once you accept yourself becoming becomes acceptance instead of creation? Are we co creators or are we are who we are? Is acceptance its own form of creation? The creation of letting be, what is?

What am I? I wonder... a lot. I'm particles. So many buzzing humming Universal particles. They sing beneath my skin and dance in my bones. In this life I'm human. A woman, a woman who identifies as a woman and has learned to love being a woman, and maybe a woman who loves other women but can't quite tell. I've never tried enough. I love men, too. I love their penises and their egos and their problems, as much as I may not want to, I do. I love their messy minds. And it's no wonder they've been running the world, I love their messy minds. And I also hate their minds. And sometimes I hate my mind, too. I hate all the icky memories of childhood and adolescence, and all the rejection from all the boys who would let me suck their dick and nothing else. And of being misunderstood, and of not quite being guided how I now understand I wanted to be guided.

I blame a lot of people, especially the Puritans, but I've begun to blame them less. Because it was cold and it was dark, and I know it must be hard to be gentle when you're so cold and scared. I know it must be a terrible thing to not know when you'll eat next, or be warm next, or hold another body next to yours and simply love it, because someone is looking down on you telling you such a thing is a sin. And I feel that pain inside me, even though I have all of those things. Even though I have shelter and warmth and a body that lies next to mine, I still both crave and fear these things.

And I lie a lot. Mostly to myself. Although I've started to do it less. I've started to just admit I am a comedian even though I am not always funny, and I am in love with my life even if I don't always understand or even enjoy it. And that it is all so absurd, and that is that. And this is my mind spilling from itself onto a page that will go onto the internet and people will read it or not, and it will resonate or not, and I will seem annoying or not, or kind of. And I don't really care. Because there is something inside of me that says type; it says fucking write. So I do. And sometimes when I wake up from my sleep words are fresh there in my mind, like milk from the utter. And so I drink from the source, and I then I spill it onto any page that will take it. This one. And later I look at it and deem it worthy or not. But in my subconscious state everything is worthy. Only my conscious lateral mind tries to shun and deny.

And maybe we need that mind for something. Clearly we do or we wouldn't have it. So accept that. Accept that we have a mind that shuns and denies and isn't inclusive and doesn't want what's best for everyone because it would rather survive. And admit there is another mind that knows so deeply it is part of a greater whole and it sees in particles, and less in shapes and figures and names. It sees as is, not as what we say it is. And that is beautiful and always there. And maybe some of us have more access to this mind than others, inherently. Maybe drugs help. Maybe drugs destroy. Maybe it's all luck, and some agency, and a lot of lies we tell ourselves in the meantime.

I don't know for sure.

But here's what I know. I am. And so are you. We exist. Briefly. As humans. And I hope you don't lie to yourself about you being here, because you are here, and you should be, because you are. And this isn't an ode or prose so much as the spilling of guts pleading please oh please oh please, listen to me. I'd like to be eternal, even though I know I already am. We've always been here, in the Universe, and always will be so long as the Universe exists. Maybe because I know this I seek to be eternal in this life. And we all do. You don't have to lie to yourself about it. It's okay to want fame and acclaim and acceptance and love. It's okay to want to be the most relevant human who ever existed. It's okay to want to be the most popular and loved being there ever was. And these very desires can kill you and deter you from what really matters, which is love. And simply being.

If there's one thing I know about life it's this: no matter how much you love and trust it, it will kill you in the end. So love and trust it anyway.

Love and trust it anyway. It will kill you in the end. With love. Because it eats itself to live. That's how much life loves itself - it eats itself to live.

So love and trust it anyway.

It consumes itself to become.