There are too many states of being that resides in the self and not one is truly genuine. There are too many blurred edges between a mood and the next, too many perplexities and paradoxes to contend with, too much room for what one can be, so much potential in fact, open possibilities, that the ideal self can be realized, striven for.
What definition to take, and what lens to see myself through? What colors to wear, credits and justices to consider? I am a mere possibility. There isn’t really an objective I, one that lasts and is consistent. It changes, moment to moment, situation after situation, happenstance, circumstance, consequence, hormonal surge, hormonal imbalance. I am always different, inconsistent to the point of precision.
To understand myself, now how can that be done? What is inner peace? Questions that I still can’t find an answer to. What I know is turbulence and restlessness—the disturbed churning inside the self’s waters, sometimes silent where the plastic sheen of surface tension belies the deeper disturbance, other times loud and violent, roiling, as breakers would crash and drive themselves headlong into a coastal cliff, a suicide.
Last updated June 12, 2008.
