Inside and Out

Keep reading; It Gets Better

Not too long ago, hope seemed lost. I searched endlessly for something to satisfy hedonistic urges that were impossible to satiate. The truth was in front of me the entire time, but I just kept going back to what I thought would give me solace. I found myself in this endless cycle of deceit, where it seemed inescapable. It's disconcerting to think that so much time had been wasted running back and forth between a false sense of satisfaction and the desire to reach a shadowy peak. But I never reach the top. Not again. Now I think that perhaps it wasn't a waste. At least I can talk about it now, with certainty that Iv'e moved past whatever phase of my life that was. The human condition is experienced in different ways. While sometimes, the bitterness of guilt eats away at present, causing life to pass by much too quickly, it is worth it to look back and know you can now use that guilt to your advantage.

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In the past few years, I decided to make some necessary changes in my life. To finally untangle myself from this web and move past the torturous life I was living. My reflection in the mirror no longer resembles the face of near-death, creeping closer to the edge of despair and insanity. My eyes were so empty, reflecting only the fallacies of my soul. They now glisten with the fullness of life and the determination to live free. A man whose journey has purpose has a life that unfolds in a direction governed by rationality and moral judgment rather than deep-seated desires.

When the crossroads was finally reached, I was forced to decide which direction to go. On one side stood desire, on the other liberation. The crooked path of desire required no stress, no strength, or commitment. Many were standing there, beckoning me with false promises and fingers crossed behind their backs. Liberation was lined with what seemed to be a tortuous, dreary road. Many obstacles stood in my way. I choose the latter. Though I often look back, wondering if desire would have done anything for me, I never regret walking in the other direction.

Moving Forward

This story seemed to start on a superficially daunting note, mixed with poetic language & metaphors, pretty words, and thought-inducing philosophic renderings, all functioning to induce some perfect imagery about the transpiration of one individuals past. Many events in my life began this way, from this dreary, dark place. A place that people most want to avoid. Though I never did. I knew those who expressed themselves in such a way had everything more to say. It's time now to move beyond these feelings, though. To move beyond the attempt to extract sympathy from everyone toward a more meaningful path. It's become exhausting trying to draw lines between past events and the present. There is no reason to make perfect sense of something that doesn't need to be understood in its entirety. Things happened that can't be changed, and that's the reality of it. Instead, I simply want to come to terms with my past with peace of mind. Use this as an example rather than a sob story. So much regret had emerged, which now can be used as clay to mold and form an understanding of the human condition. I want to share the truth that I came to understand that it's never too late to move forward.  

The Path of Liberation

I didn't wake up one day with the motivation to make a change, but I knew that it was time. I was trudging over and over again through my apartment buried in empty beer cans liquor bottles. Was I already dead? Gradual steps, small yet substantial, have been taken to bring me to this point. It required me to clean up; my environment and then my life. Each piece that was recovered was used to build upon my new life. But not everything from the past should be picked up. It's difficult to look back and see where my true, genuine, human self began to emerge from the ashes. With that, I want to talk intimately about when I started to write. This point is where many things in my life changed for the better. Not right away, but Iv'e come to appreciate these changes lately. It's the only way to organize this mess of thoughts and experiences into something manageable. 

After picking up on different philosophy books over the past several years, I decided to keep a journal. This decision may seem menial, but it was a significant turning point. Many prominent individuals I've looked up to during my growth and education, including artists, military leaders, leaders, and religious officials, most all keep some journal. Several months ago, I decided to allow myself several minutes each day and night for journaling to expand upon my day in some detail. Keeping a journal is a process of reflection and the building of character. To write about where I've been, if anywhere. If there were any good and bad parts of the day and why I could speak of these in truth. Suppose I was feeling grateful or even selfish. Either way, it would be written in truth. From horrible streams of anger to enlightening philosophical passages that ring through my thoughts throughout the day, the journal allowed me to externally express the truth in myself. Reflection on one's flaws through a medium of self-expression is nothing to take lightly. I was finally able to sit quietly with myself and peer deeply into my own soul without passing judgment. It's what I now call a functional form of meditation where a certain stillness of the mind can be reached. There is no correct way to do keep entries though it is essential to stay consistent. While most writing aims for consistency and improvement, a journal is less daunting and more personal; something that is yours and cannot be taken away; something to guide you when you are lost through the darkness of your own mind.

Nothing else seemed to listen as well as the pages in that book. The more and more I wrote, the better my writing became. My vocabulary expanded, and I could express more complex and beautiful ideas trapped in the confines of the mind screaming for liberation. I began to notice, through writing, the source of many issues in my life. From the content of the writing itself to the handwriting each diverse, element functioned as an integral part of finally putting these pieces together. The continuous act of writing allowed me to find comfort in my humanity.  

Barriers of the Self Now Broken

There was a point that was reached where my entries seemed repetitive. All writers have hit a wall, and mine was this dreary repetition. I thought perhaps sitting intimately with a thesaurus and trying to form the most complex and poetic syntax possible would push me past this barrier. But I felt like I was falling short each time, no matter how seemingly complex I made it. For inspiration, I turned back to my books. The more I read, the more I realized that I desired something more than what could be achieved through my journal.

One night, sitting quietly in my apartment, time was lost, and my soul was searching for something I couldn't reasonably ascertain. My pen was placed gently against the paper though no words could be formed. I looked over toward my nightstand to see my small stuffed panda sitting there, and she happened to be staring back at me as well. She never looked back at me before until now. Had I now lost it? This strange thought sparked a peculiar motivation to write a short story about the panda named I had named Elise. Sitting next to her was a small stuffed fish, her long-time companion. I began to think, well, "How did they meet." They must have a story. Without much thought, I entered this state of timelessness, what some call flow, where I could bring to life something that remained seemingly static in the eyes of others. 


Now a plot was unfolding with actions and decisions. An environment began to emerge with a river and bamboo forest, where the young panda began wandering through, searching for her meal. Elise found her vulnerable meal flopping on the bank. But after a series of gifts, Elise decided that the fish was not a meal but a friend to cherish. Her feelings outweighed the desire to satiate her hunger, and though still hungry, she was not alone.

No need to rattle off the whole story, strange, silly, and beautiful as it was. That's not the point of this one. The point is I found this outlet for self-expression. It gave me something more to look forward to than drinking myself into oblivion. I often look over at my nightstand and think about Elise and her friend. The adventure that they had, one that's unique only to them. Now I plan to write more stories.

True Self

Writing has given me a way to express my true self. The limitless expanse of the mind reaches far beyond our world into other parallels of existence. Something new now calls me toward it and guides me. My soul no longer suffers. There is something now to improve upon every day — something to strive toward. To find oneself takes an exponential amount of effort. It requires a humble disposition and clear, sober consciousness.

While this all sounds like the perfect point fruition has been reached, there are still struggles to overcome; and life wouldn't be life without them. I often find myself wanting more than I have at this moment. It's a common plight in our modern culture. This selfish disposition is a product of what caused my alcoholism in the first place. Instead of waiting to get my hands on another bottle, Im daydreaming about published books and those who read them speaking highly about them. The desire to enter into the world of the greats. But why? What makes them great? Ultimately what I've come to understand about these fantasies is merely the desire to contribute. It's what all human beings inherently desire. What sparked the motive to write was not the fame or glory but the beauty invoked when reading such notable works. An appreciation for the arts is unmatched by anything else I've experienced. I've entered into many worlds in my lifetime and will enter into many more. My desire to create celebrates humankind's inherent capabilities to reach past our senses beyond our planet and the stars. To employ what many call the consciousness. Love and lust, pain & growth, passion & temperance, all captured wholly within the confines of a piece of paper and our symbolic nature.

Now, when I think back, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Responsibility has been taken in my life beyond simply making changes in my behaviors. I completely transformed myself into something that was more than I could imagine. But there is still work to do. There is always something to do. The journey toward those dreams is what makes these changes worthwhile. What truly changed is the emergence of a new beginning molded and dictated only by my hand. Now, all there's left to do is share this gift with others.