Who Are You Anyway

   Posted by: chris   in Fish Talk

You do know that your world is made up, don’t you. Your opinions, your beliefs, your ethnicity, your religion, everything that you know and possibly believe for certain to be true is actually just a script that you are playing out.

You are like a piece of paper with writing on it. All the writing, all the stuff that appears to define you was added to you at some time since your birth.

You appear to be so complete but because this stuff was added it could be changed or erased. You are a work in progress.

There are however things about you that are real. Things that define who you are at the very core of your being. The paper part of you, the part that was there before the writing began. Your smile, your ability to love, to laugh, your sexuality, your passions, your intelligence, compassion, the very essence at the depths of you, the paper part.

What do you see and feel when your mind drifts, what makes you sad, what makes you want to cry, to laugh out loud and your idealistic dreams where are they now, buried in some closet, covered in lost and forgotten yesterdays, just like the soul of you that lies buried beneath the script that you wrote and follow on your journey through the barren wastelands of life. Without a dream there really is nothing but pain.

Have you noticed lately that the written part is the dominant part, how it owns you and controls you, how it denies you the comforts your inner self craves? Have you shared your humanity recently with a stranger who passed you in the street? You know, the one that you thought you knew, that you couldn’t take your mind off, that you still thought about hours after you passed like ships in the night, that something in the writing told you to ignore, that to look away and walk on was the correct thing to do, much safer, much smarter. Or was it?

Have you dared to love with abandon, to say what your heart thought, have you been true to your core self in the longest time,

In your relationships are you stiff, sticking rigidly to the mold, the script that is written on the paper of you? Isn’t it sad really how we live such uncompleted lives merely because we dare not let our mask slip, living is terror that we just might reveal who we really are to the world and to ourselves, who we really are below the writing, below the script, below the acts that our lives have become.

The soul in you is thinking of saying something like “Hi, I’m no one, how are you, I just love to laugh and dance and kiss and hug, would you like to join me for a while.”

The script is looking at the ground thinking are you going crazy and who is that freak anyway.

But there really is only one freak in this conversation. The freak you have allowed yourself to become.

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