Writing gives me a sense of significance, when I can find nothing. Either I can read something I wrote before, or I can write something that makes me understand that even though I cannot easily discern the details, I matter. I really do.
It's just so ironic, the way we're raised to sort of, keep up with people our age, in growing. They (adults), compare the children to each other, and to the children of previous generations; To learn, and derive a standard. This principle; to it's subjects, is convoluted, without being warped. The sample of peers referenced by an individual, to measure oneself beside; is a fraction of the sample used in the collective, derived standard.
Suddenly; In an instance, we're not meant to compare to one and other? This; the thing we have been doing, to recognize growth, since the very beginning, is misguided? That's hard to swallow, because it defies the institute of rationality;
Displaying a once, unblemished,'logic', to have been a filthy hypocrite all along. There's something wrong.
I do like the concept that it is no longer an accurate measurement, at some point in growing; to compare oneself to one's peers. This, however liberating, was incomprehensibly proposed, nonetheless.
I'm just so stuck in a loop of confusion, fear of change,focus unbroken, cemented; paved to a road mundane. I can acknowledge it, shout it out, proclaim exactly what I am doing wrong, as I am doing it. I cannot ascertain how to change direction. I can say that I can see somehow: even terrible days, in retrospect, were good? I don't know how I can know this,- but I understand the quote, "Happiness is not a destination, it's a way of life", and in that, I begin to conceive it. Even with 23 hours and 56 minutes of terror and strife, one minute of confusion, and 3 minutes of senseless, hysterical laughter; 'hope', defines the day . I can say that I see this, yet, I operate oblivious.
The night before last, I had a dream segment: I took the memory of my family around a table, singing Happy Birthday, (at first I thought they were singing to me, but examining closer, I'm not certain who it was to. It just seemed though they sang to me, because i wasn't singing,- but I may have been singing, when it happen. I replayed the moment, and I stood inside of it, overlapping myself. I paused to take in a bit of them each, deciding that I couldn't say who I love most. I realized then, choosing who I love most was not why was here. I came to be in the presence of my grandpa again. I, (standing), bent down to wrap my arms around him, as he sat at the table, and sang.
I could feel the living warmth of his body; The breath, and the love flowing from him,- if he felt my embrace, it was in the original moment, as a tingle of foresight, divine..
This was the first dream, in a very long time, that made me feel warm and fulfilled, and not upset, trying to fix gaps in logic. Sometimes he would visit, in the identifiable present, like, once to help with the plumbing.. I would get really upset, trying to figure out if his return would compel him to experience death again.... He would tell me not to try so hard to make sense of it, but I couldn't stop trying to rationalize. A few times, I made myself wake up from nausea of this.
It made me sad, because I always considered myself as being extremely open to the realm of divinity. I thought I could handle it all more adequately. I have prayed about it, and have had a few visit dreams that I was able to enjoy. This dream was profound in that it didn't defy any sense of logic, or cross any boundaries between what I know now, and, what I am unable to know now.
-A clever way to get a helping of him without beckoning him... I don't know if i believe that it removes a soul from the depths of heaven, for someone living, to call for them. I try not to call for him, anyhow, in case it is true.