Unlocking the Mysteries of Self


keys open locks but only if you have the right key for the right lock. but what is behind the door you are about to open? could there be a right key and right lock but a wrong door? how did i stumble upon this door, and where did i get this key. a skill to learn has been one of the pick lock artist, where all doors are fair game, and the art of stealth relies no longer upon keys, but the patient manipulation of tumblers tumbling one by one until a slight click opens any of a choice of doors. no doors will remain closed by rule because i shall not allow my actions to be dictated by others. if there be a pen and a pad upon my desk,  then i shall crawl into one of these cubby holes and embrace the quiet, light a candle within my mind, and begin to meet me, grooving padlock after deadbolt, broaching past the past by shimming into the present, and staring at the newborn me, infant me, the real other me, by throwing open my fears and penning the thoughts of my true self, my confusions that i had to deny, my mistrusting of how this world really had endless possibilities (they only had to be unearthed), miracles upon miracles, yet everyone acted so stiff, obedient, as though because some stately authority issued a command it needed be followed. writing writing with pens pencils or a keyboard must be partaken with purpose, with drive, depth. never will you know of anything more important in your whole being, than the one act of letting everything go, standing tall, brazen, swollen, wide eyed to no one but yourself…can this all just be fear, which is the reason for this maddening indoctrination of similitude, and why its acceptance has been so easy, because its so easy accepting rather than risking. does the middle school boy really take a risk by tipping his cap and kissing that other boy on the mouth in his class (played out), even if his dare comes within the parameters of an already established system where there is no real self to risk? to back flip off the high dive is still to land in the same pool with all the other children. is being slightly different really any difference at all? the self without early growth stages, without at least the hunger for the cultivation of actual freedom, will be only a being grown to game play, flirt with tiny character alterations like a change of clothes, or an experimentation with roles, but nothing ever is really gained. hitting bottom plunges one through multiple skies with a chute upon ones back hurtling towards a rock at a hundred miles an hour one never unearths his character when falling for his life: one merely acts to survive. or is that man’s true character really? but as the embryo develops within this maddening chaos of controlled certainty, he should know what he represses but he represses what he knows because he refuses to realize what he is, what he could be, will never be, for if he did, he would refuse the the refuse of this social realm, this planet of manners, this social prison that has found five character traits it finds becoming, worth replicating, and will medicate all those who are without them into a glass-eyed wandering state where they will act their parts. what was the point of your birth, what made you so special, if you ended up just like him or her or THEM: watching the same movies, wearing some slacks, drinking the same beers and fucking the same girls. never becoming only being. personalities for sale. who wants an allowance when she is just gonna spend it buying what her best friend has anyways. language was meant to bring us closer, we have just managed it to use it to tell us what we lack, what we want, and a list of justifications for why we aren’t what we wanted to be: rich and famous and happily ever after. i stopped waiting by doorways with keys in my hands hoping this door held for me some secret. i never knew how a three old should act, what he should know, or what three year olds ate. im feeding myself water veggies and milk straight from the cow. im a pretty fast learner, teaching myself to write all over again, moving with purpose…taking my time, because it is mine. there is nothing better than all the aches and pains and growth and breathes this body of mine takes and experiences. no door could ever hide that from me again, nor will i ever let someone else ever feed my mind with a food i never sought my self. it will take me a full new day every day for an eternity, to catch up with the man, and the wonder i am meant to behold…

“a faultless person is one who withdraws from affairs. this must be done with strength.”