|The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.)||The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.)||The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.)|
I try to bear in mind that I am one of the blessed people on this earth what with having enough to eat, and a safe place to sleep, and someone who seems to love me, and friends to laugh with, and clean water to drink and a working toilet. Yep, that's me. Ms. Grateful. And then, other times, I can't stop that loop in my head that plays "poor me poor me poor me poor me" over and over again, vying for airtime against the tape that tells me how untalented and unintelligent and uninspired I am which is the tape that alternates with the one that tells me unceasingly that I will never, not ever, no matter how much I work, never amount to anything. There's all this noise in my head is what I'm trying to say--so much noise that sometimes I can't hear anything at all and I have to stay in bed, under the covers, begging my head to be silent.
Sophistica talks about the arguments she has with her brain--the brain that gives her bad advice in retribution for trying to impose some order and discipline in her life. I have that same tape too, only, I don't try to fracture myself into those two beings. When I speak of my tapes, I think of my head as being me and of me as being me and of me as being against me or of me as being an expression of me and not of me as being some person whose existence I only aspire to.
I can't stand a happy person, so it is nice that I don't really know any. Everyone I know has some beef with the universe, some problem that, if solved, would leave them free to be happy. Problem is, we're all so unhappy and have been for so long, that we wouldn't know happiness if it bit our noses right off our faces. I think we've been trained to see happiness as that movie thing: where everything is perfect--the set, our skin, the lighting, the relationships, the weather, the plot, our weight, the money, the stories, the children, the clothes, the hair, the makeup, the telephone service, the cars, the streets, the landscape. When it works out that only the makeup and the phone service are perfect, it's still far short of movie perfect, and so we can't accept it. We won't accept it. We can't be happy if only the hair and weather are perfect. We're still broke. We're still not in the perfect relationship. Our skin still looks like someone took a meatcleaver to it.
So I have these tapes that play in my head over and over and over one another. They tell me how bad I am at everything. They tell me how much everyone despises me really. They tell me that I am a fake and a phony. They tell me to stop trying. They remind me that nothing I do will ever be good enough. They are always right.