today I came to the final realisation that my different Selves contradict — it’s no wonder I can’t ever reconcile with my reflection. I put a palm out against the glass, lay my fingers against the surface in different curvatures and rhythms, but always delicately, softly, playing dinner jazz instead of rock n roll, so I can see the light mimicking lucidity, and, tips pressed against the coldness, I always notice the thin gap between reflection and self.
what am I looking at — these eyes, nose, lips, teeth, chin, neck, breasts, skin? pores, scars, spots, vellus hair, gums — specimen bits of microscopic scrutiny more striking and obvious than the wholeness of body parts. I look into my eyes, although they’re not really my eyes (oil on canvas, René Magritte: “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.”), yet I can’t see anything but eyes, and I think if eyes really are the windows to the soul, it’s no wonder there are atheists in the world. and I appreciate the complexity and intricacy of our anatomy, of the biological foundation we are built upon, and of the art & grace of our supposed free will, of this beautifully enriching human existence, of conscious thought & awareness of self… but these thoughts are but thoughts, and if I were to be authentic they are not thoughts I derive from observing physicality, but thoughts that are drawn from a deliberate, abstract decision to be realised, to acknowledge depth, to appreciate. it is a grapple for meaning & a sense of self. it is illusionary, and I say this with the basest neutrality; no shame, no remorse, no anger, no pity, no gratitude, no joy, no relief — but untainted truth, free from any external reality but itself.
my mind is indifferent to this knowledge, to this irrefutable reality, to this recognition of illusion, and thus disillusionment. hence my personal conclusion: to not interfere with states of existence — my basis of adoption instead of having my own kids, because just as I do not have the authority to take a life, what gives me the authority to give birth to it?
my soul is cold to this truth. and it craves a sense of understanding it can accept. but it hates to be lied to as much as the mind, and it knows there is no explanation or objective meaning, and thus it is left cold. not a good thing. not a bad thing. just a thing.
but then my heart. it insists on meaning, on fulfillment, on growth. and that’s okay. it is why I am not Meursault yet. because the heart is my fragment of belief in this elaborate illusion thrust upon my being. and I appreciate it, because it makes it impossible for me to completely detach from the ground and fall into theory, but then, with the absence of black & white, neither detachment nor indulgence (in the illusion) is necessarily good or bad, just silently grey and factual. and I appreciate my heart for making me human, for leaving me a layman to acceptance of the illusion, but at times I detest it too, for contradicting my mind & soul, for making me hover at the border of ignorance and knowledge, seeing the abyss of realisation but hoping to still somehow find bliss in oblivion. because that’s what it is: satisfaction in feeling vs enlightenment in indifferent truth. and neither is the right or wrong choice. and I hate (but simultaneously love… I hate these contradictions) this position I am in, sometimes, when my heart grows weary and falters in conviction.
because other times physical needs and material wants and the illusionary persuasion of emotion & promise of fulfillment engross me and I temporarily forget the dilemma. but now I am stuck in it again. and I am tired — though neither painful nor pleasant; merely matter of fact.