I arrived at this restaurant and left because it didn't feel right

A month ago, I arrived at this restaurant and left because it didn’t feel right. 

I didn’t realize until I got here that I had brought myself back. And I can feel the not-right-ness.

The energy is not welcoming. It’s cold, and empty, and there’s something dry about it.

It’s pretty, but not rich.

It’s where I used to live. 

I would have come here and arched my back and commanded that you welcome me. So that I don’t have to feel unwelcome. 

But I am.

The unsuccessful that it is to be human.

Unwelcome.

Don’t fit in.

Not liked.

And not because any of that is actually true. But to step out of the need for it, I must accept the not-belonging. I must accept the fears of my efforts. The fears that drive me. 

They are real.

In that none of this is real.

And so I watch my body do its things. Pulling its belly in. Adjusting its facial expressions to make it look good. Sucking in its energy. Naming itself small and quick and convenient. Distorting its softness into false shapes of embarrassment and shame. 

Acting

Instead of being.

And I watch it,

The way I would watch Dojo, or a bug, or a baby lion. 

With objective eyes. With curiosity. “Oh, you’re doing that now. Hm. Interesting.” Observing it like a science experiment. Posing hypotheses. Without imposing direction.

Noticing my own preferences, without giving them any weight.

I don’t like.

I feel discomfort.

I am agitated and annoyed.

And so it is.

And there it is.

The agitation

The irritation

The frustration 

That brews on my insides anyways.

That churns inside of me as I confront the world. The world that is not my making. The world that has its own agendas and patterns and directions that rub right up against mine.

Ughh.

Agitated.

Oof.

Frustrated.

Aghk.

Invigorated.

Invigorated by the grinding.

Invigorated by the pushing. The huffing and puffing. The orgy of ironing out the kinks. The irony of “kinks” being both the thing we want, and the thing we don’t.

The thing with which we play tug of war. Chasing and running

On repeat like our favorite song.

The fucking ecstasy of the disgust of our own repetitions…

And the exquisite escape of perpetual dumping of our own fates on those we come across.

The way we honor the external

Just so we can anguish in our own internal.

And then we use that.

We use it to create stories.

Entertaining stories 

Of our own dire stupidity.

But in the entertainment, we get lost. 

We believe it.

We believe it and we forget that we created it. 

Not like “you are the creatOR” 

But like literally

We wrote it in the first place and then we just bought our own lies.

We bought our own lies, and then we used them to make more.

To fit in to this never ending flagellation.

And not even self-flagellation,

But societal flagellation.

Worldly flagellation.

A sort of flagellation that permeates all that thinks.

It permeates

All

That thinks.

So,

What.

What do we do?

We cannot fight it because fighting is part of the distorted illusion. 

We must just become.

Become a being that recognizes its own neurotic compulsions. A being that knows we are here for this,

And yet

This

Isn’t

It. 

A being that honors the twitches and reactions of a human person, without getting lost in its pulling

In its tangling.

And that’s it.

That’s all it is.

It isn’t effort or studying

Or climbing or crumbling.

It is only 

The watching.

Only the seeing.

Only the traveling in this vehicle we call life.