In Common Light

We value authenticity. If we are not authentic to ourselves, we cannot connect as well with others. When we are inauthentic, we usually are putting up some form of a facade, some front. We are creating a false self, some imaginary other. What is this imaginary other? Where do we get the guidelines, the instructions, the steps in creating this front? How do we go about deliberately presenting this falsehood? Great questions, these are. Because these things happen all the time. We act based on lies that we are told — those mistruths, the fabrications, those displays of certainty, of reality, of trueness, and of nature. 

These, my friend, are the guidelines, the blueprints, the scripts, and the fabrications of the self. The facade, the front. It’s like a sheet. These lies encroach upon us, lying themselves within our soul, infiltrating us all, though we cannot stop it. These lies know that we need them! They take advantage of our weakness. They fix us up, patch up our flaws, our vulnerability. They know us. They know us too well, these lies. They know our confusion, our worry. They, too, know that this world is nothing but a mystery. An ominous, daunting mystery waiting to be solved.

Mysteries themselves are okay, even fun sometimes. What you did, though, you evil thing, was, like I said before, take advantage of me! You know this thing about me, that I hate to dare even say. I…I… I am… deeply scared! There! I said it! I do not know this life. This life may not even know me. If it were, I am not too sure. So there, I said it! I am scared. But this is much besides the point. You hurt me, you misguided me. I am scared, yes. But naive, no. I am no longer going to listen to your destructiveness. To your lies. You have separated my sense of reality from my being. They worked, at first, your lies. I believed them. Wholeheartedly, I did. I did all of the things you told me to do. Thinking of them only brings about pain. I mustn’t remind myself. I mustn’t return, or else they may sweep me back. They may again take me by storm.

I am light, and free now. I’d wish to stay here. Maybe this, what I’ve just said, isn’t me talking to you. Maybe ignore it all– if you were even listening, I am not sure. And frankly, I don’t care. All of this is to say, I am still very much angry at you! How dare you! You very much misguided me, and for that, I’ll never forgive you. You saw in me my weakness — that’s all I can elaborate with — and pounced. You pounced on that. You very much did. I need not be pounced on, I need not be taken. I need not be encroached upon. Leave me be, I declare. Had you let me be, I would have much preferred. Now I know what life could’ve always been without you, I grieve that life. It was taken without consent, awareness, consciousness – taken from me!

What made you think to do such a thing? To infiltrate my being, to destroy, convince me even – oh this is the worst part indeed – that I needed you? What drew you to do it? What motivation energized you? I must ask, I truly must.

Did I seem all too weak for you? Vulnerable, in a frenzy so much as losing control of myself? Was I much too perturbed? Could I not merely look at the trees, look at the stars, feel the sun’s warmth? I must ask. Did it become too much, this world? Could I not bear the trees, stars, the sun’s warmth? I suppose not. Was it too much for me, the creatures near? I do love the sight of deer, bears, and foxes. They delight me so much. Tell me, what caused you to do it? Did the world maybe deem itself, dare I say, too large, too incomprehensible? I must know. Did the world offer up too much of its beauties? Did the trees, the stars, the sun, and even the creatures declare themselves as a sort of threat? I must know. What, tell me, was the motivation, the reason, the spur, the impulse, the drive?

Hmm. Well, I do remember a time. A time in the winter in which, sitting atop a hill, a bear crossed paths with me. She was a friendly one, I may add. She posed no threat to me. She bear greeted me and, turning around, scurried on with her day. She then left and journeyed down the hill.

She wanted to find some food. “Let us go,” she said to her cub. “Down the river.’” She arrived at a spot at the river. Eager to eat, eager to find salmon, she said to her cub, “Just a bit more.”

“You must rest,” said a voice to Mama bear. She was feeling tired, but she responded, “We must find fish.” She then looks to her cub and says, “A bit more to go.”

“No!” the voice says. “You must rest, you must converse.” Mama bear goes anyway, determined to find food, sights set on the grey, scaly creature. Nourishment. “We’ve got not much left to go,” Mama bear says and she and her cub continue down the river, hopeful.

This hope, though, soon dwindles. “Almost!” Mama cries. She whimpers for the first time, giving in to her exhaustion. Slowly, she succumbs to it. She gives in. The cub notices her Mama growing weaker and says, “That voice, Mama!” Mama again whimpers, ever so faintly. “Mama, we must,” says the cub. “We must listen to the voice.” “Must we?” says Mama.

Though Mama is not listening, the cub does. “The voice, the voice,” he thinks to himself. He knows what must be done. Sticks, twigs, and pines, he begins to gather. Mama joins in now. Together, a perfect hut they form. Without a word, inside they go. Without a word, Mama’s eyes shut. Without a word, they rest. 

This, I come to find, is like you and me. Lie, are you still there? Please stay with me. I know I may seem to hate you, I may seem to despise you. Was that you there in the story? 

Was that you, I wonder? You, telling the bears, despite Mama’s initial defiance, to rest? Was that you, judging, and prodding, to secure Mama? To secure the cub? Tell me. Was that you, with alarm and love? Without you, I would guess, is that the cub, upon losing Mama, would then yearn for the voice. Would attune itself to the voice. Is that true? You must tell me. For I must know. That cub must now be happy. At you, and at himself for listening. You did, after all, save his everything. 

I am starting to think that you are a different type of voice. The voice with Mama and the cub, I am starting to think, is not like you after all. This voice for certain knew — either rest or die. It knew for certain the bears’ conditions and then it pleaded. It announced. It was a lot stronger than you. You, I am starting to think, have something different. You, I am starting to think, are weak. 

You don’t know me. You think you know me. You think. What’s best, you are not sure. You don’t plead or announce. You are not as strong because you are not quite certain. You guess, you attempt. If a person listens, you, then, are successful. It is then and only then that you are deemed strong. 

Who, though, listens to you? Who makes you strong? I must know. You build off of those who, like I said, only listen to you, of course. Your message becomes true when you are listened to. So tell me, I must know. 

Who listens to you? Mama was strong, she was bold. She went, no matter what, to her calling. Her sights set on the grey, scaly fish. She didn’t, at first, listen. You know this. You saw this. You pleaded harder, you urged.

Though, Mama survived by this voice. She had to listen in the end. She’d not lived without it. Without you, she’d have died.

Humans, though, we are different. We can go after the salmon, the gray scaly fish. We can go after it without this voice. In fact, we need no voice, calling for us to rest, to hibernate. The trick is that we often think we do. We know “salmon,” but often think we only know “scaly grey fish”. We are innovated, advanced.

You, then, try to come in. You try to urge. Urge us to organize. You urge us to assemble. To fight. To grudge. To clash with nature, with those around us. We, though, don’t need it. 

I may be the only one who thinks this. I know “Salmon”. Others, though, may only know “scaly grey fish”. I am not too sure. Please tell me if people know salmon. Do they? I wonder if I truly do. I hope, only hope, that they  know salmon. If they know salmon, they won’t listen. Like Mama, they’d be strong. They’d be strong and still stay alive. Is this, may I ask, how you decide? I mean, if it will work, I ask. 

I must know, you must tell me, if you know. I may know if you don’t. Who made the others strong? A good question this is. Quite a good one, indeed. 

I am strong. I like to think I am strong. Where did, I must ask, this strength come from? I have strongly instilled in me. Not innately in me, but instilled in me. Infused. Because of this, I ridded you. Instilled, it was. But – how? But – where? Or, even – who? I must know. Surely, I must. How, where, who? 

What does, must I ask, that strength contain? I must know. I’ve heard of one certain term before. It’s everywhere. Everywhere, I hear it. It’s a word called love. Must this be it, I ask. Must this be, not strength, but love? I surely must know. Really, I must. I suppose, I really can. Love. hmm. That sounds almost right. Yeah, it could be. 

It must be love. It must. I know love. I do. Surely, I do. Love is everywhere. I feel it. Love is everything, I sense it. This is it, I think. The strong are love. This I know for sure. I know. You mustn’t tell me, for I know. I now know.

I no longer despise you. You are okay to me. You just appear. You just are. You didn’t pounce on the weak, the vulnerable. You didn’t attack. You are okay. You are fine. You are just there. 

It’s the strong, I declare, that I now despise. Indeed, it’s true. I would have not thought this before. I despise the strong, the loved. I do. Why? You can ask why. Because we let it happen. You’re just there. You just appear. We, though, we’re here. We create, and often we do. Must though, we create more. Must though, we spread. Must, though, we burst. Must though, we shower. Must though, we cast. Must, thought, we pounce. We must do all of these. It’s a must. No doubt, we must.