Prompted by: not on top of the world right now
Never to complain for pity, but I’m tired.
I put down the idea of jumping into my lengthy task list and settled upon another post that history suggests probably will never be read (and appreciated).
Some believe it’s better to be a fake somebody than a real nobody. I’ve always understood that if I’m a fake somebody, then I’m a real nobody, and nobody can ever be a real somebody without being a real nobody. A real somebody never needs to claim that brilliance, because their actions achieve the expression of that reality.
Being a real nobody sucks on the one hand, and nobody knows that better than me.
But there’s no choice for people wired like yours truly. We’re sick of the bullshit. I’m so sick of it, I refuse to embrace it even supposedly for a worthy cause. The inherit nature of corruption within reality is exhausting — illuminated by the cyclical and equal nature of justice.
The cyclic nature of reality is the true exhaustion, but that’s just the loser in me questionably pouring out into the informational sediment.
Who am I? After roughly four decades of breathing, I’m comfortable enough with my answer, while knowing the road ahead always promises challenges towards adapting that unsettling answer.
So while the world ignores mass deadly problems to watch childish beings pretend to lead, I wonder about my place as a real nobody in publication, but not in self-esteem. I know who I am, but part of that knowledge is knowing that I can’t connect, because I refuse to join the shamefully popular bullshit parade. I refuse to marry into it, raise kids in it, dominant other lives in it. My island is my fate.
The public secret I share is I don’t give a crap about your thoughts of me. I spent most of my life exploring and polishing, refining to the lame duck. I kept it real (and will die that way to fullest possibility), and I paid the horrible through wonderful price.
I don’t see a light at the end of the tunnel today. I don’t even see an oncoming train. Just sinking in the same old darkness (my metaphorical spouse I can never actively divorce), while light needs to uphold others.
I’m the real nobody who(m) tries, and that makes me a real winner and loser.
My real accomplishment is achieving the undefinable realization, but I feel no fanfare, because only those embracing definition (usually the popular familiar one) ever do. That fanfare has no meaning, according to my accomplishment for which I naturally experience with many strangers and some loved ones. But it does pay off debt and recognizes that we do inevitably live in the perception of definition, and therefore even the most enlightened beings within reality must come back from undefinable realization to find that lacking definition includes the pain and pleasure of our dying lives into the cycle of being defined.
Perhaps I (like you) can always ride even the most destructive tidal forces of energy by supreme and permanent meditative resonance (the absence of definition is oneness with the never-ending and never-feeling reality extreme).
We all have our role in the undefinable extreme, and we always will, because time is space, and we have no true definition.