486: Random Spills, Aspie Thoughts

1. I get mad that I can’t stay mad. And then I get frustrated that I can’t even stay mad at not being able to stay mad. For I have no choice but to enter myself and fight my own ghosts, instead of blaming another for my misery. Oh, to be able to harvest anger and revenge, and to escape the agony of my own doings, just for a spell. To be able to lay blame, point fingers, and destroy that which isn’t my own hauntings. How bittersweet the temporary state of self-projection onto another would be; just that little break. To swing upon the vine of ‘not-me.’ In not knowing the truth, the cause, the reasons. To be blind and asleep, and stomp upon the world a fool. And to come up noticing not a bruise or a falling, replenished in my dream-state delight.

2. Whenever I am adamant about something, and cling to the attitude, as if it were a stoic indestructible truism, attaching with a sense of righteous indignation, I have a tingling of sensation of being chained down and burdened. I can only carry the weight of my attachment for so long. Eventually, without a doubt, I have done an entire turn around. I have seen the truth of what I harvested and collected. I have seen how I swung on the pendulum of grasping. Then I have no choice but to let it go. I have to. It just doesn’t belong, and there exists within no warehouse or space to hold such anchoring effects. In the end, I reckon that I lack the tentacles to grasp onto anything more than momentarily.

3. When I share I feel vulnerable. But I cannot help but to share. I have a drive in me, a calling, a need to enrich myself with creation. This is self-serving, to create through writing. I am relieved of angst and in many ways set free. However, I don’t create because I want to, I create because I HAVE to. There is no want in having my deep-seeded angst, and there is no want in desiring to be exposed and vulnerable. I have no choice. Much like a bug to light, I cannot resist. This is my calling, and every cell in my body responds in unison to the action I take. I believe the dualistic nature of my creativity adds to an energetic healing, being in that I have no choice there is no motive and no expectation. My words exist entirely as a byproduct of the force working through me. How evident is the beauty and truth in each of us? In you. In our gathering? Imagine if each and everyone of us took our pain and suffering and transformed this aspect of ourselves into a product of enrichment, some beneficial byproduct through any form of expression. Something without perimeters and boundaries, something that truly shined out from the pores of our essence.

4. I am realizing that part of my ‘guilt’ and need to pull away from others is the fact that I often lose myself when in the presence of someone, whether online or in person. It doesn’t matter the geographical difference; I pick up on subtle and not so subtle personality nuance, energetic vibrations, embedded emotions, and historical imprints. I have done this since a small child. It isn’t something I do with intention or with constant knowing; the process is similar to blinking my eyes: once I realize I am being what could be called ’empathic,’ I am made aware. The guilt is something I am ready to release. I feel guilt because of upmost importance to me is the act of maintaining integrity, honesty, and genuineness of spirit. In other words, I live to be authentic. Yet, when I am taking on the persona or energy waves of another, I no longer act myself, and I begin to doubt who I am and what I bring to the world as representation of self. I also become disoriented and displaced, lost to who I thought I was. I need to regroup in isolation, partially to dispel and remove the residue of others and partially to reboot my system and regain equilibrium. So often, I do not know if what I am feeling is my own ‘stuff’ or something I have picked up on. This is an intense and sometimes terrifying way to walk in the world; though, the abilities I possess are the exact gifts that enable me to tap into the collective unconscious and accurately paint a picture of a collective experience. I wouldn’t ask that this way of existing be erased, but I do accept that the more I understand the way I am the more aptly I can assist myself and others.

5. Sometimes, for part of the day, I have a tinge of over-confident-Aspiness. Kind of like I am a tiny super hero. It happens a few times a month. I gain a lot of insights, clarity, and feel a relief of anxiety and heaviness. Sometimes this is triggered by a new friendship or an encounter of some sort. Then I get all happy and gleeful. I tend to spill out some ideas of one matter or another. However the whole while a part of me is thinking: Ut OH, this means you will be doubting your entire existence and reality and joy in a few hours.
And sure enough, a few hours pass, and I am all: See I told you so! Why did you have to be so HAPPY?
I tend to lack the capacity to swing to one extreme in emotion without swinging right back to the other. Like I have some built-in yin/yang barometer.

6. My blog has close to a half-million views. And you know how many people have ‘attacked’ or written unkind words to me? Two! Statistically that is profound. For me this is proof of the ability for the act of authentic giving, unconditional love, and complete honesty to create a safe and beneficial space. I receive what I put out. And it has been a splendid experience. Cutting out my core of fear and exposing it to the world has eradicated all illusion of self-injury and self-hate. I risked, I sacrificed, and I stayed true to myself, without need for validation or outcome. There is no greater peace than having no secrets. There is nothing anyone can expose, debate or corrupt, when your soul is pure and your heart is focused on goodness. Sure there are dark moments, but the light outshines them all. I am not afraid to live and breathe in this world as me, as completely me, and I applaud those who step out of the comfort zone into true vulnerability and soul-shining. You are beauty. True beauty. Don’t be afraid to let yourself out.

7. Sometimes I love everyone, everybody, and I feel a bit guilty, if I feel a little bit more love for someone else, like I am supposed to love equally, all the same. But I can’t help it. Some people are like little fluffy kittens that I want to harvest. Like when I was eight, and I collected ten baby cats and tucked them under the bed covers all tight, and then squirmed around inside the sheets as they tickled me with softness. That’s how I love: all tucked up in sweet tickling tenderness.

8. The thing is every single romantic interest can be traced down to an inner need, whether we call it an ego-based need or spiritual longing. Essentially, I think they are all ego-based needs, as when I am connected to source I lack nothing and feel divine and complete. I am beginning to think no such thing as romantic love exists. Only compassionate unconditional love. I have been processing love for two years, now. Romantic love seems to be primarily short-lived based on projections into the future and an illusion that another can fix or mend what is within. I am more so apt to appeal to the type of love where two people are already in love with self and God, and go from there. A mutual partnership, I suppose. Parallel instead of enmeshed.

485: Back Awake

“I feel the safest when I am in the lap of vulnerability, tenderly tucked in the hands of truth. Here I am my self. Here I am true. However once released, a radical dichotomy manifests. For though I am safest whilst vulnerable, the aftermath of such actions brings imminent danger. Oftentimes after being exposed in the open, the lap of safety evaporates, and I am left swimming in a mist: the fog of regret, refusal, denial, and question. Having voluntarily been stripped and gutted, torn down and replaced, and surrendered in refuge to my own self, I become infant escaped into a new blinding darkness. Here I face a rushing fear of my own making. Another layer upon layer of self-doubt breeched and set painfully still within. Until I rebalance and reassemble and understand that in the risk I am reborn again.” ~ Samantha Craft, Everyday Aspergers

I am afraid. Each and every time I share with you I am frightened. This won’t ever pass. It is essentially who I am. A vulnerable wounded warrior. I accept this. I allow this. I find strength in this. Each day, like you, I reface the demons and hauntings. Each day, like you, I don’t give up. Each day one more shadow of untruth is conquered. I recognize that I face only that which is a mere shadow of doubt and fear. There is nothing out there in the forest black that threatens me. And still I tremble, some child lost in the universe of self, desperately reaching out for companions in the company of ghosts.

I am understanding today that this is okay. That I am entirely okay to be frightened. Of course, I am frightened, I feel the weight of the world. I feel inside of you. I feel inside of pain. I feel the all of all. And it is overwhelming. Until now I was fighting some invisible battle, the fight between strength and weakness. I was teaching myself subconsciously the ways of the world, some offset rules of behavior and insidious goals that equate strength to the absence of fear. I am beginning to see myself in a new light. Something that resembles the final breaking of the iceberg. In that I am set out, divided in myself and left to melt into the waters of union.

I am sensing that this interior battle is coming to an end. Or at least one end.

I am the meek one. I am the weak one. This isn’t going to change. But in this is my strength. In my inability to don the robe of pride. In my inability to be filled with praise and take refuge in compliments, this is my gift. Until now I felt numb and lost, in a perpetual state of always approaching. Now I feel centered and rebalanced, allowed to sit where I am and take note.

I am not that which is becoming anything. I am that. I am all. And in this knowing I am understanding multiple aspects of myself. There is no struggle, and yet I continue to struggle. There is not truth, and yet I continue to seek.

There is just being.

There is just being in this state of grace whatever it brings. The heartache, the question, the agonizing emptiness, the void that longs to be filled, it is all the same game, the same dance, and the partner is fear. And still I wait, thinking that if I move swifter than the rest of me I shall outrun the mystery. This isn’t true. Nothing is ahead of me, as nothing is behind. I am not being chased nor am I am the chaser. And thusly, I am in a place of waiting, waiting until the runner in me subsides, exhausted and forlorn, and returns to the only choice: that of basking in the light of truth.

I am what I am, and nothing I do or find or invent will change this. I am honorable, good, and opaque. I am that sunrise and sunset. I am that wave and that droplet. I am that which is everything. And like the tree, I need not surrender to the storms, I need just be: strong in the steadfast of my existence. I need not take up armor or weapon of mass destruction. There is nothing to excavate, demolish, or retrieve. I am already.

And here I am today, wondering why this took so long, remembering from before this exact place I stood, and watching all the scenarios of me pass by—the costumes, the robes, the dank-dazzling masks. Had I not been here all along, this child of the universe, entirely bathed and set out in truth?

I am tired of fighting this invisible ghost of me. Very weary. I surrender her to you. In all her ways. Her supercilious-self and forthright searching. I am as beacon and you are my light. You are shining within me and I within you. I am done looking. For today, I am done.

And when I arise to yet another version of self, I will remind her too, to rest, to be, to stop, to just wait. And in the waiting I shall let the movement and rush of the world subside, pass by as nothing but whispers of wind, touching down and embracing that which is us. Touching down and hushing us back awake.

meeee

483: The Void

Somewhere out there you are lonely. I see you. I feel you.
You have this compassionate void within, a great abyss, massive in girth and depth.
There is no end to it: your beacon home.
You grasp at straws, at significant concrete ideas, thoughts, and concepts, even people, in an attempt to understand this absence, this missing, this grand emptiness.
So grand is your space of void that you long to fill it with whatever comes.
Sometimes the comings are tragic, sometimes wild, sometimes fulfilling, sometimes long-lasting, but they always dissipate.
You are left with memories slathered in pain, no matter the causation. You are left abandoned to yourself and your doings, in a state of query and mishap, shaken and made awake. Further awake.
This happens again and again, this searching out with your great capacity, an opening of self to what is there.
You take into you this, this substance, whatever the measure.
And you embrace it there, in your deepest self, twisting and turning the angles, figuring out in your limitation what could be, and forgetting what is.
There is a dichotomy inside of you, in which you love yourself, the innate you, yet also punish yourself for false failings.
You long to be someone else, as you embrace who you are.
Deep within you honor and respect your light, your goodness.
But beyond that you become confused in this world, isolated, alone, burdened.
This is your journey, and my journey, lost in a way, and found just the same.
There exists an ache so substantial that you live to alleviate the agony.
Day in and day out such intense longing.
We mistake this longing for love, for future hope, for him or her, for this or that.
The craving is the loving search for source, for truth, for light.
And in here we bathe.
Reach not for what is there, but for what is within, and your answers remain, as always, readily attainable.
Turn not to another, for the other is not the way.
You are this ‘way’ in your effervescent glow.
I cannot remove such suffering, even as I try ten-fold to release myself.
The suffering stays, and only grows greater.
What I can do is speak my voice, my truth, and seek harbor in the safety of awakened awareness.
I can go to the core of self and bring up what is there beyond the mask.
This is your calling, too. This is the void.
To embrace yourself fully in all your perceived failings. To love yourself in completion, and in turn give to the world what you have found within your being.
Purge, die, renew your essence, and give back your true light.
I wait for you on the other side, my burden heavy, my heart pierced, my enemy awake.
I wait and wait and wait, until a thousand deaths fall upon me.
And then I shall rise, with us in the horizon, with us in the rising sun.
You are my answer and I am yours.
We must awaken to the dream that is us, and begin to live the dream that is now.

482: The Greatest Casualty

sam

I woke up with three pages of information involving archetypes and symbolic representation, and the challenges I face of being keenly aware to the illusion of life; in so much that I am aware of the way I must choose icons in order to live and communicate in this dimension. This followed by the off balance of duality at my core level, if it be off, in that I am primarily feminine energy. Then I was conceptualizing the time space continuum, in regards to how I can’t think in simple format but instead in what is a visual expansive viewing in which, in a short amount of time, it seems I am viewing a series of variant options and pathways to conclusion.

It is impossible for me to think in a linear fashion.

I think in where some are persecuted and ostracized for perceived secrecy and aloofness the opposite occurs with me. As I am interpreted as smothering, over-sharing and clingy. But in truth I am at the same point as the latter, in so much that I am overwhelmed with thoughts and information, and my coping mechanism manifests itself as verbally processing likely to off set the feasibleness of insanity. Couple my intensity of thoughts and emotions with my capacity to remote view others emotional, say spiritual state, from a distance, and I become bombarded with such vast amounts of data I overload.

I struggle with being seen beneath what appears to be a constant shifting of perception and representation of what I am. I become that which I am observed by, and, in essence, I am reflected to that person through his limited capacity to view what is before him. In this sense, I remain entirely isolated and invisible, much lost to my own self with intense longing to be seen. Ironically unable to see myself as nothing more than fluidity.

The greatest casualty for me, in great contrast to some, is my advanced empathy and ability to tap into another’s emotional field, as this capability serves to intensify my awareness of suffering, isolation, and the tendency for most of the world to be asleep, if not lost somewhere trapped within what they perceive and what is. My greatest discomfort comes in craving to be seen as a true representation of love and compassion, vibrating at a frequency that is both beneficial and of comfort, but feeling the discrepancy between who I am and what the other is interpreting.

I am that I am, yet others in their closed ways turn me into their wishful dream. I long to break out of the isolation and this brings the fever to my writing. However, the more I try the more blinded I become to the rest of this existence; in essence, sinking into this self I neither know nor understand.

I cannot see faces in real life. I have no idea what I look like. Each moment I shift as do others. This makes the world very uncomfortable for me. Perhaps it is the eyes that are the only thing that remain constant. ~ Sam

469: A Circumstantial State

I sometimes have a strong creative urge that I try to suppress, an urge brought on by an out-and-out pure response to chaotic, gone-haywire emotions of devastation, inadequacy, and not-enough. I become this questioner of questions, a process that is, I find, both cumbersome and too deliriously complex to explain and/or express. Yet, I try, as I do now, for that knocking upon knocking of my withered soul continues.

The truth is, by tomorrow, or the next day, I will be back to equilibrium, my hormones returned to some state of balance, my outlook, previously dimmed, much lightened, and my heart’s endeavors reacquainted with the concepts of hope and inspiration. But, for today, at this moment of juncture, life hurts. And that’s the way it is, all in all, a painful circumstantial state.

I am my worst critic. I am a deviously keen observer of self. Devious in the sense, based on my mind’s delight and current disposition, I can project pretty much any circumstance onto myself. I can create me into anything, and quite convince myself of the truth.

I am a fabulous debater. So fabulous indeed that I can argue both sides of any argument presented, detaching all emotions and outcomes from my viewpoint. I can just see into infinity at times: this spiraling of truth upon truth, knowledge upon knowledge, shared and passed on wisdom and leakage from the collective unconscious. Anyone can. That is, anyone can see what I see, if he or she chooses. Thing is, I don’t choose. At least I don’t think I do. It just is. I was kind of born that way, I conjecture. As it seems my brain has always seen in a limitless fashion, where inherently the truths of truths stem out of some pool of knowledge deep down within the center of some agreed upon collective idea of real. It’s a crazy way to live, literally, to see the disentanglement of complexities simplified into a raw element of nothingness. It’s bound to leave me feeling buoyantly afloat in a world filled with deep heaviness.

I am adrift more often than not, inside some self-manifested escapism. When I am not escaping into the concept of trying not to escape, when I am not purposely trying to escape the effort of mindfulness and being present in a world that screams for me to run, then I am trying to understand what relief and alleviation arises in my conquest of leaving reality. If it weren’t for my mind’s ability to take me adrift, afar off from this land of man, then inevitably I’d be lost onto myself again and again in a torrential, destructive doomsday way—broken, penetrated, skinned, and left to die. Escapism is my safety net from the world of worlds, this place created by man as reality, when nothing exists outside the reasonings of the philosopher’s ways. Escapism is in actuality the very lifeboat that removes me from the sinking ship of knowing and seeing far too much, and returns me to the shores of tranquility. For how can a one, that I seemingly be, exist in a place so full of torturous ways, and yet smile at the image in the mirror she neither understands nor recognizes?

I am rebirthed moment upon moment, acutely aware of my inadequacies in awareness, and completely mesmerized by the makings of this being that I am. Indirectly I give and take upon myself, filling my being with reassurance and then taking down the walls of pride or exterior notions of excelling or succeeding. I am trapped in a way, inside two extremes of being. The one that is to the left which is bleak and dark and reminding me of the world I wish to not be a part of: the illusions, the lies, the schemes, the projections; and the one to the far right of nowhere that is bright, but too bright, a burning scorching idealism that leaves the adventurer worn out by her own doings. I fall back and forth between the lines, finding balance briefly in the state of not being, only to be returned to the merry-go-round of limiting attachment. Wherein I want to belong, to be a part, to be entirely present, the greater part wants to dive away from the teetering of this life, and be not part of something thats very essence is ego-bound and self-limiting.

I crave to belong, yet, I long for the reprieve of isolation. With my own-ness, this state of being individualized and in hiding, I am less likely to be circumvented and exposed to the dispositions of others—to their thoughts, their opinions, their energies. I am less likely to be evaluated and reevaluated by an outside self that predetermines who I am before I am even made fully aware of reality myself. I am less likely to be molded into this prefabrication of idea of who I should be based on some prefabricated gatherings of hankerings and inklings created by absolute strangers (to themselves). I am, in my awareness of others, made into this idea of what is and what to be, or better yet, how to be. In being outside of the state of isolation, I am knowingly put into a stream of realities that don’t fit, don’t feel good, and actually hurt. Here I am made to practice again and again the process of letting go, the interjection of forgiveness and understanding, the recourse of relying on a source beyond me for the release of the echoes of hatred, demise, and retribution. Here, in this spinning nonsense of man, I am made to practice again and again to be someone I see not, to be that which is above the circumstances of sorrow and suffering. And here I am exhausted in my efforts to be all that I can be, beyond these conceived ideas of what is.

What I am becomes lost to me. I cannot grasp reality. I have sunk myself into the vastness of nonexistence. And I become lost in the labyrinth of endless possibilities. I seem to seep out of this life into the places of other lives. To see the extremeness of being in the unlimited possibilities. How each choice affects outcome. How each decision determines the blueprint of further coursings. How every ripple leads to movement upon movement. My mind is a centipede of motion, leg upon leg churning the outcome. I cling to nothing and loop again down the rabbit hole of trying to comprehend the incomprehensible.

In the making of one word, I see a thousand opportunities. Life is set out for some in such simplicities. The delights of the palate. The makings of grand friendships. The works of fine art. The creation of something magnificent. From where I stand, I become twisted in the details, the analysis, the facts beneath facts. The origin of the word, and the founder of the origin. What is it that is simple? What is the definition of delight? How is grandness defined? What makes something fine? What makes something ‘works’? How is magnificence created?

What is truth, if every word is a window to a thousand more doors? What is communication, if what I am is defined by that which I am not? If every word is chained to a reaction based on a previous reaction by a unique individualized perception based on a collaboration of previous collections, then where is the connection? Where is the place where I reach out and blend with another? Is it not in constant isolation we exist, continually trying to break through the barrier of I to blanket over the concept of we? To cover us as two conjoined and to remain outside the shell of isolation, whilst all the world is a slumber?

465: Unconditional Love

I love you.
When you are lost, when you are alone, when you are driven away from me by some unknown force.
I love you.
When you are forsaken by your own self and thoughts. When you twist reality into a fantasy that is dark and bleeds of isolation.
I love you.
When you go, I will watch and wait until the nightmares subside and the light beckons. I will wait at the end of the tunnel, at the entrance, at the exit, at the only place you will eventually arrive.
I am here for you; not because you beckoned, not because you desire, not because I expect a single thing.
I am here because I love you.
I love you in a thousand upon a thousand ways.
I love you for your beauty, your deep etched soul, the sunlight that slips through your fingers and glistens on your skin, of happiness to come.
I love the hope that is you; for whenever you falter and fall, you return. You retrace your steps and return.
I watch you without fear of abandonment. Your actions do not make me. Your ways do not change me.
I am you and you are me; yet, we are separate in our choices and visions.
I know who I am, where my seams connect, making me whole, my parts intermingled to form true divinity. And I view you the same. Ever so splendidly made.
In your presence I become more real than I imagined possible; all of me expands and implodes, building contrasting caverns of existence.
When you do not have faith in yourself, I will have faith in you. When you do not have faith in us, I will have faith in our togetherness.
If ever I grow frustrated or worried, know it is the burden I hold, the lasting longing I carry to behold your sorrow erased and your joy sprung anew.
I shall wait outside your threshold through the depths of time.
I shall remain full in my attempt to exist as a stronghold onto myself.
And in this way, I will have done my best.
I will not stand between you and your dreams, you and your freedom, you and your happiness.
I will always abide by your wishes, whatever they be, as I trust your decisions and the makings of your mind. I trust that you have the answers.
I kneel for you, as you kneel for me, both as suitor and servant.
I stand beside you, cheerfully enchanted, cheerfully grateful for your victorious days.
If ever I take you for granted, it is merely my shadow resurfaced, feeding off the illusion of fear. If ever I fail you, it is merely a part of myself forgetting the beauty we are.
Know, if I had to live this life again, and start anew, my hope would be to have you the same. Just as you are. In your gleaming perfection.
I love. I love you. And whatever you choose to do, or be, or say. Whatever you choose to represent as your own existence and truth.
I love you.

~ Samantha Craft, December 2013

love R

456: Osmosis

I am from a different dimension watching the happenings in awe, taking notes, mental calculations of everything about: the climate, the temperature, the ups and downs. But not just of the environment, but of the people. Mostly the people.

Everything is taken in, at both a conscious and subconscious level. There is a sense of no time, and a sense of too much time at other intervals. Much transpires in a quaint amount of minutes, and the mind becomes lost in some labyrinth of intricate and dynamically complex ponderings.

In viewing the situation, the actual being in a room with others, the actual processing of the brain, and the very real presence of self-observation, coupled and quadrupled with observation of others, there is a dutiful evaluation unfolding, a recollecting of past knowledge, gathering of nearby circumstantial evidence, and a preponderance of scaffolding—taking the old and making new form from prior existence.

Both the complexity of thoughts and complexity of creation of newness propel the observer forward into another space. Minute time spans get lost, placed somewhere else, as the mind interjects the mind, interrupting self; something akin to rapid thoughts, but far beyond even the concept of thoughts.

It’s as if the machine is oiling itself, feeding itself, spinning itself, dissecting itself, and spewing out product all at once. To say I am “adrift” is far from factual. To mention the words wondering or surmising, not even close to justifiable. The state of existence is beyond the scope of man. Far reaching, like a power still undiscovered; some creature hidden in the far region of a deep forest, not yet classified or identified, and in so being undiscovered, unable to place a face on his own face, a name to his own name. He just is. A living entity with a breath that is neither here nor there, but nonetheless existing evermore.

To say I enter a room untouched is foolishness. Everything reaches out to me, begging to be gathered. I am overwhelmed, spun, juxtaposed to self, and then brought back to reality, to the present; only to be spun out again—some exotic rare yarn undone and spread throughout the room, feeling and touching with my softness of inquiry my whereabouts, needling myself back through loops and holes, gathering the loose ends and reassembling substance into understanding. Making myself a shape to match the surroundings. Osmosis and inquiry warped in union.

I am what I am, here, in this state, some constant creature of transition. I am hyper aware that my existing affects my being. Hyper a tune to the ways of the world, in how the people move about: the motives, the causations, the wants the needs. Here, thoughts prick at me, trickle in, more like clinging vine than cool running stream. I am pinched and prodded by a foreign entity, and left to breathe in the unfamiliar and daunting. All about me is information—the exterior and interior of bystander intertwining and creating pictures in my mind.

I know not what to do with self, as self is transformed by the collected data; the shapes and forms, the meanderings of thoughts, trying to stumble through the input. A part of my engine made to live. A part that knows not how to sleep. All is alive and real, subscribing to me, as if I were the words expelled—the entities around me, whether forged with their own thoughts or merely spinning molecules of substance rock, connecting to me, reaching, collecting the avenue I be. I become to them what they are to me, some highway of transgression of thoughts.

We combine in a dormant way, hiding behind some wall, filtering our way about one another. Feeding and living in the backdrop. I know no other way to describe this, except that I dance with that which is all around me. To walk into a room is not to enter a space. To walk into a room is to transcend self, and to be returned forever changed.

455: Love and Loops

I have been trying really hard to not loop, to not spin, to not take something that is nothing and turn it into a monster. The largest portion of this sense of self is lost in doing so, in succumbing to the voice of fear and believing what I hear. The greatest part of spirit knows that fear is all but illusion, and only love exists—prevails beyond the illusion of naught. Still I get lost in the murky waters of falsehoods, daily, if not hourly, trapped in a labyrinth beyond human logic.

Because I am vulnerable, I lose sight of my purpose. Because I succumb to this falsehood, I lose sight of the all. I become a pawn in some minions’ game of discourse and confusion as I stumble down endless reasonings leading nowhere.

I have watched myself as the observer and taken soul-notes, or more so delve through time for answers, and if not answers than at least a glimmer of insight. I have listened to my heart-mind, and focused on the powers that rest beyond intellect. And in so doing, I have found some peace. I have found some recourse beyond the dilly-dallying of the mind, beyond state of anguish.

I have discovered, with full vitality, a remedy beyond this place I am. I have seen a solution that is far more reaching than letting the pain play out to the end. I have seen: It is not that I need to seek the meaning and find the solution, but that I need to release the need for solution.

Before I believed this meant releasing to the process—to allow or give permission for my mind to go through the torment. Now I view the occurrence with new eyes. There is no need for me to wallow in this state of pain day in and day out. The truth of the mystery of release is found in not releasing, not focusing, not trying, but simply replacing.

Releasing through replacement is my remedy. And not replacing with the tools of busyness or distraction. For though they be sweet, the intermingling of heart-mind into a daunting or thusly thrilling task or adventure, they too come to a conclusion, an end that certainly leaves me back on the dock of gloomy comings. A place where I am once again triggered by an invisible made visible.

I’ve come to see that what I am sensing is not so much an intellectual attack as a spiritual attack. A dark nature of my own doing or another’s, I know not. A creation brought on by self-manifestation or a power beyond, I know not enough to ponder. But whatever the affliction, rather karmic, energetic, or simply part of my journey into greater peace, the affliction exists. A pain so palatable I can taste it—hold it in my mouth and bite down. It’s thick and dirty, and filled with deception. Trickery of what is and what isn’t. And mask upon mask of who I am.

In the end, at the bottom of all the lies is this desperation, this clinging, that makes my mind scream out. A lost woman forlorn and in destitute wondering about from that which she came.

To experience is to remember. To experience again is to cry so deeply in recognition of the unraveling loss of control that the tears become the enemy. The shell of self emptied too, so despite the remnants of what I thought I was, who I thought I was, I become something entirely altered, different even within the mirror I reflect upon. Wherein even the home in which I sought rescue and escape is shattered—no place to crawl back into, no matter if it be demolished or in disarray—no shell exists. I am left out in the open barren space of nowhere searching for a way back home to nothing.

And so I have put into practice a new approach, scouring over the teachings I have collected in my mind, and surrendering a gentle submission of knowing not enough to conquer this affliction. Instead, I retreat into a place in which I connect my heart and mind, and I give to myself the gentleness of love.

I let into my mind only one word: LOVE

And I repeat this over and over and over: Love, love, love

Love, love, love
Love, love, love
Love, love, love

That is all.
That is the all.

And here I rest, unable to untangle my own mind with any other words, unable to be the puzzle solver or mender. Unable to recollect what brought me here again—for one solution inevitably leads to further spinning and descending into the abyss.

Instead, instead of anything else in existence, I choose love.

And there I rest, repeating the source of light over and over, until the healing waters come, and I realize whatever or whomever it was that afflicted me, be it self, illusion, or other, I am whole still. Returned to the womb of discovery. Returned to the self complete and renewed.

454: Sometimes I am so very real

I believe this collection of random thoughts I have had over the past two weeks emphasizes both the tenderness and complexities of my heart-mind. Much love to you ~ Sam

Sometimes I am so very real in a world of falsehoods that I am mistaken as fake.

Listening to another’s words is telling. A truth seeps through. Inside the words there is restriction, beyond the words, too. Any self-based motivation and intention is detected. The ego’s ploys and plots. I can feel them. The way the one tries to place his image on another to validate his own truth of existence. The way another tries to categorize an experience through cloaking a person in his own garments. It feels heavy to me, to be around someone who is attached to his own sense of self, his own sense of what is right. I feel attacked with daggers. Penetrated with judgment. It is not that my own identity is so fragile and in need of repair from the demons of the world; it is because my soul is tender to the ways of people blinded by their thoughts of superiority. I see others as equivalent to self, as equal. And so many times another wants to define me as more or less. Both disrupt my energy flow and energy purpose. Both make me momentarily stagnant, slipped inside the seams of another’s perspective, and bent into the shape of their doing. This isn’t a defect or something I need to alter. This is. And I sit here wondering where these people go, so lost into themselves, that they can not find the truth of us.

I do not share my story to receive empathy. I do not share my journey with any intention at all, beyond love. And even this intention, I release. For love exists fully in freedom. I place no expectations on my readers, and no expectations on my self. My hope is abandoned, in the sense I choose not to hope for outcome based on my words. I don’t steer, nor do I drive my voice. I simply speak my truth. I am that I am, and whatever flows out of me, I bless with my authenticity and with our shared light. I do not seek approval or acceptance. No longer do those traps entice me. I seek only to shine as a representation of your own beauty. And in doing so I am placed ten-fold above my own interior pain. I am lifted beyond the seemingly endless singular journey and returned to the arms of All. You, me, we: traveling as one united.

Sometimes I want to pour myself out, like spillage from a sac. Plop myself right out there in completion. Everything from the biggest secrets to the biggest fears. And just say: Here I am. Take me or leave me. But if you’re going to leave, do it now. So you don’t take the good parts of me with you.

For me, the challenges with religious doctrine or any spiritual doctrine, is that more times than not a person will pull out a singular element of his interpreted truth from the literature, perhaps a quote or a philosophical idea, without having studied the whole: the works in completion in original voice and language, the history of the interpretations, the effects of man’s interpretation, and the effects of man’s darker virtues, those of greed, power, and control. In my current view, pulling out one singular element from a vast and complex teaching that has been made more complex through man’s influences and tainting, and claiming a singular truth, is the same as taking a body part off of a human to explain a being; in other words, I would not cut off my ankle, place it on the table, and say: Here I am. Here is my truth.

A true friend inspires you to shine your own light, expects that you prove nothing, and loves you in any condition. She neither takes away from who you are, or adds to your existence, but neutrally supports you with her own self-acceptance and self-love.

Too often I have been admired, and mistaken this admiration for love. Too often the admiration fades, and what is left is this empty shell of another’s perception of me. I long to be loved for me, but seem to get lost inside the busy-ways in which others build me up. It is lonely falling from a place that never was to a new place that is even less a reality. Back to this hole of somewhere, the gap in which people bury their disappointments.

It isn’t your opinions that bother me, or even your continual judgment and evaluation of who I am as a person. I don’t mind if you disagree with me, or that you believe you can fix and control me. I don’t even care if you find my ways repulsive and unsightly. I care that you don’t love yourself enough to see that you are already whole and complete, and instead take your illusion of a broken self and try to pound ‘broken’ into me.

Often I absorb the energy of someone that is around me. For example if she is angry and bitter, I feel this. If I am around the energy for a certain time interval, usually more than an hour, I begin to reflect back to that person what she wants and expects to see. I, in essence, shift, becoming an image of the other’s projection. If the person is in a state of contentment and bliss, free of judgment, and full of unconditional love, I can spend countless hours in the one’s company. If she is tormented by fear, which is often the case, I become wrapped up in her fear myself, transforming into something I do not find comforting. As hard as I try to maintain my sense of self, I slip into the evaluation energy field another has of her own self. I become who the other perceives me to be. I have heard other spiritual teachers speak of this phenomena. What amazes me is that no matter how much love I give out to another ‘seeing’ me, she will eventually make me into her truth, regardless of my love. I am beginning to understand more and more why silence in the presence of others is sometimes not only beneficial but necessary.

Some of my most far-reaching works were driven by an intense and utter sense of isolation, separation, and desperation. I cried out from the dark of my soul in a state of pure innocence and agonizing pain. Here, in these dark nights, the light came. The light of you. Many blessings.

No one, absolutely no one, is trying to escape. We are all trying to get back in. Back in touch. Back in bliss. Back to the place where we are whole and entirely connected. We aren’t stagnant beings trapped in a prison. We are pulsating light attempting to penetrate from the outside in, longing to return to the core of love.

Just because I appear to be at a loss right now, somehow fallen and maybe looking to you broken, doesn’t mean I won’t be back on my feet in a few minutes, entirely renewed and ready to start again. I recover quickly. Reentry into this world has become my habit.

My honesty runs deep. I am not just layers of honesty; I think I am built with bricks of it. Each comment I make is weighed for truth, and in turn each word out of another’s mouth is felt for accuracy. Not my way or their way. Not right or wrong. But whether or not the words spoken resonate with the underlying energy. If what is expressed coincides with the empathic pull I feel. Even the facial expressions, the body movements, the tone of voice—I wonder as observer of self and other—is this a truth? A true reflection of the state of being? I dig deeper and wonder what truth is; and thusly, the simplest actions for others, become rapid moving complexities to me. The sound of a ‘hello,’ the movement of a head shaking, the words ‘I love you.’ The daily norms aren’t easy for me. So much rests beneath everything. And yet everyone seems to be skating on the surface.

It is hard for me to be in balance. I want to. I try to. I study how to. I look in books. I look at others. I watch and observe. But it appears I wasn’t built the same way as the rest. It seems I move in extremes. I am either overly passionate and obsessed or I am shut off entirely. I am either running full speed ahead or dodging what is coming at me. I don’t know how to be the other way, the way people seem to be. I am a mess or I am pristine. I have all the answers or I have none. I am on cloud nine or I am in hell. And it isn’t anything that brings me out of balance, not a mood swing, not a chemical, not a drug.. it is this place, this world, the confusion it brings: the energy, the questions, the bombardment of rules that aren’t rules. All this makes me cling to one thing and then another in hopes of answer. The clinging elevates me to a place of momentary security. The obsessions trap me away from reality. But then the reality comes and I am swung back down to who I am in a place so unfamiliar. It is a constant game of pendulum dodging. I am at the bottom somewhere with the pendulum above. I hold on and swing, right to left, left to right. Hope to fear. Fear to hope. And then sometimes, I just give up, let go, and fall into a dark place of not wanting to hold on anymore.

I woke up raw this morning, bristle brush to the inner parts. Scraped, with my protective tarnish all but removed. It’s hard to find equilibrium when certain events are altered. When what I’d thought would be does not transpire. I find myself repeating teachings of letting go and trusting, living in the present, and having faith in the process. Only this lesson seems to be on a annoying feedback loop, some old record I can’t turn off. I am tired of trusting. I am tired of trying to let go. I just want to find that state of being where even the voices from the record are silenced. Where there aren’t any droning reminders and no need to pacify the feeble self I perceive. It’s a grand frustration when all the answers are there, are given, are ready for taking, but my body and mind seem to be frozen in a distant state of deafness.

I don’t understand why I fixate on another person. I am not what would be labeled co-dependent. I am not needy. I am not desperate. But certain people trigger a dire hunger in me, as if I found a lost piece of my own self. I wonder if at some spiritual level I recognize the person, if I know outside the limits of time what has already transpired. Perhaps my sensitivity stretches beyond this moment, and shows me in dream and waking-state my other part; and then, the earthbound self I am cannot handle this sensation without succumbing to passion. Perhaps I am recognizing where I used to be, whom I used to be, or what I am to become.

I hunger for a love I know not. A deep penetrating, enveloping love that never leaves and never enters. That blooms from within over and over, eternal in its giving. Depletion exists not, nor does retreat. Only constant renewal and rejuvenation. When I taste this love, from within the space of no space, in the light’s birthing and rebirthing, I am home. When I do not, I am perpetually lost and wondering where I was before I forgot.

The worst for me is loops.. looping.. spinning.. the cyclic thoughts that overtake me that feel much more biological/fight-flight than logical. I can be fine one moment, one hour, one large portion of the day, and then something triggers me, e.g., a strong emotion, an attachment, a hope, a disappointment, or various degrees of stimuli. And Boom! I am smack in the middle of some lost land, where I cannot catch my breath or my sanity. I am falling and wondering if I will ever touch down again, if ever I will ground myself in factual evidence and reassurance. The same thoughts move round and round me, a merry-go-round in my head. And I am not only dropping at high speed, but sinking inside too; shrinking in fact, become some diminished self: less worthy, less me. It takes all my strength to keep from drowning, all my reserves and energy. Then I am momentarily in a state of limbo that seems to last eternity, where time is stopped, and my whole existence preoccupied with whatever it is that is consuming me. It feels as if I swallowed something of substance, but then in turn it grew and began to devour me. I wish then I’d never taken hold of whatever it was: a person, place, thought, dream. I wish then I was someone different, someone more prepared for this world.

Sometimes I over explain myself and give a lot of details because I know from experience people are swift to form their own judgments and opinions about me the moment a word escapes my mouth. In many situations, I instantly feel misunderstood, before a complete sentence is even formed. I interrupt for the same reason. I can feel the person steering away from what I have tried to say. Words, they limit me. I feel and sense too much to explain in a paragraph, or even in an entire book. Mine is an endless stream of thoughts, and to speak for only a second, I am already lost to the world. There is an isolation that follows spoken communication and a reminder that peace is found in silence. An isolation in which I realize my way of communicating is often unheard by the masses, and only collected by the delicate few. Still, I rejoice in the few, in their endless compassion and love. Here I find my refuge and my true voice.

At this moment I agree that thoughts can lead to manifestations in life. I believe this because of the mystery of moving atoms and the mystery of water molecules, in how they respond to stimuli—the observer. Sometimes people will tell other people to think positive and to not fear. This is not beneficial. It only further perpetuates the conquest of fear. When anyone tells another how to be or how to find the way, he is implying he knows more than the receiver. The resulting energy exchange, the product of ‘telling,’ negates any power a message might have carried. The most benefit is gained when someone is loved unconditionally, when another shines his light in love with no expectation that the other person be any certain way or respond in any certain way. There is a confusion in the world, a deep confusion, in which people think they have the answers and are here to share the answers. The truth is we are the answer. Within us is the light. When someone feels the impulse to penetrate another with her truth, this is not love. This is fear disguised. This is believing that one has a secret the other does not possess. We have become a ‘How To’ generation, built with a million upon a million keys of separate generated ‘answers.’ Everyone is so busy telling everyone else what to do, that they forget to listen to their own heart. When others begin to open up their own soul, we will be a much quieter world.

I am awake in the sense I know myself. In knowing myself I know others. In knowing the all, I recognize the constant change and transitioning of life in everything and everyone. Yet, I exist in a world where people worship stagnation, confinement, and the boxing up of attributes. I understand nothing is as it seems, but all about me people try to declare what is and what is not. I used to listen to their echoes and believe. Now I listen to my own heart, and know.

My vulnerability and openness is not a reflection of my strength or weakness. I am not a degree of something or another someone sets upon me. Up on one scale of attributes, and down on another. I am whole and complete. Even in my perceived ‘low’ points and ‘failings,’ I am enough. I am that which is beyond this physical being, this limiting ego-state. I am that which is already entirely love and light. If one chooses to place upon me a definition of his or her truth, then this truth is also who the person believes his or her self to be. In choosing to see me as only light and love, never stagnant, and continually transforming, the other chooses to see self the same. What I am is what you are.

I will love you no matter what you say or do. I will forgive you no matter what you say or do. But this does not mean I will let you back into the circle where I keep my heart. If you hurt me, I close. A part of me surrenders from our relationship. And to trust again, seems infeasible. Yes, I will cherish you. Yes, I will support you. But to be connected again, may be an impossibility.

There is a difference between loving unconditionally and allowing anyone into your sacred space of self. It is not hypocritical to announce you love unconditionally but to still choose to limit access to certain people in your life. In fact, it is essential to have boundaries and self protect. In order to maintain unconditional love, one must love herself first and release self-judgment and self-expectations. In the process of self-love, one must maintain a freedom to nurture and uphold the self and balance this act with applying the wisdom to protect the self. In choosing to let go of certain individuals and to establish physical and spiritual distance, I am not announcing a degree of separation; instead, I am pronouncing a continuation of the honoring of my holy light and purpose. I won’t allow the capacity of a singular to diminish my light and counteract my energy resources and my ability to serve and love others. In truth, sometimes one must be set aside from the proximity of self, still held in light and love, still held in hope, but no longer set in a spectrum of space that can essentially snuff my light. Better that I focus on the circumference of the radiating love of all then on defending myself from one who is negating my efforts.

He came in with his opinions, and rearranged my life, sifting through what was right and wrong, and in need of alteration. I was dusted off, pulled out of my place of comfort, and turned upside down. Made to believe this title of faults were the end all, the cause of turmoil and disruption. Luckily, he couldn’t reach my heart, the cornerstone of my existence, my truth and my steadfast peace. For even in my disarray and utter sadness, singled-out on a weary shelf of ‘wrong’ and in need of ‘fixing,’ my heart cried out ‘false.’ And she sang, you are beautiful for always.

We (many people with Aspergers and others who are sensitive to the falsehoods) see through the illusion, even if we don’t know what we are seeing through. We feel this falsehood at our core and recognize it as poison and not real. We often don’t know why, but we do. When we are around like people who bring us comfort, it is because they resonate with our core. If our core is authentic, we resonate with authentic people; if our core is fear-based authentic, we resonate with fear-based-authentic; if our core is non-authentic fear-based we resonate with that. Regardless of a neurological condition or any type of label. Like attracts like

Sometimes I would prefer to meet someone in my perceived moments of ‘weakness,’ instead of my perceived moments of ‘strength.’ In that way, I am not set on a pedestal, and then watched until I falter. More so, I would prefer to connect with another who sees me as neither weak nor strong in any condition, but merely whole. There is a profound emptiness that flows through when one establishes one as something or another, labels experience as theirs with an unreasonable ownership, reckons they know and can figure out another soul. They can’t, unless they know their own soul. And even then, two get lost in the endlessness of no boundaries. I am neither longing to be admired for my strength nor longing to be forgiven for my weakness. I don’t exist in a stagnant state. I only exist as love and light. And all else is falsehood appearing real. I love you in your completeness, not for your moments.

I am supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. And awesome. And a bunch of other cool words. But if you are seeking perfection, you better find that in your self first.

It isn’t your opinions that bother me, or even your continual judgment and evaluation of who I am as a person. I don’t mind if you disagree with me, or that you believe you can fix and control me. I don’t even care if you find my ways repulsive and unsightly. I care that you don’t love yourself enough to see that you are already whole and complete, and instead take your illusion of a broken self and try to pound ‘broken’ into me.

I have this ongoing list of how I am supposed to be alongside an ongoing voice of how no one really knows how anything or anyone is supposed to be because everything is self-created, perceived, and rejected and/or accepted.

I don’t do well when someone I meet excites me. I am like a dog set free for the first time at a dog park. I frolic and pounce, over-sniff and over-lick. And then when I am back in the doghouse, I wonder what came over me.