If I were to tell you, that I don’t really care about what people think of me, what will you
think of me then?
And you would pop the question : “then why does it matter what I think”?
I ponder exactly the same.
I have this peculiar urge to communicate and have people see, exactly how I feel. I want them to see the constellations exactly from where I stand. And every time, I offer them my seat, I don’t realize I move to a new seat, a new angle, and then I want them to shift with me. It is not hard to learn from this argument, that at one place, can only be one.
Maybe I feel alienated and alone in feeling how I feel, in perceiving what I perceive. I feel alone in my theories.
Unlike Marx. He got whole goddamn community to read, what he fathomed and observed. Although in his journey of observations, he was alone and singled out and in solitude. He spent time in observing, instead convincing.
I once read somewhere, an artist demands not be be understood, but leverages people’s own reflections through his art. What people see in art, read in literature, witness in theater, and live in life, is a reflection of their ability to expand and explode, or inability.
So all these writers, attempting to tell you how they feel, and trying to connect a cord with how you felt, are simply looking for somebody to drown along with. They are afraid of sinking alone. Wishing to be retold, with every like, re-tweet, comment on their pieces of scribble story, that we are all together in being alone.
I hence, want to tell you how “I” feel.
Not to ask, if you agree with me or not.
I do not wish to have you stand in my shoe.
Let there be difference. If you change your shoes, you might transport yourself physically from yours, and slip into mine, unfortunately you will keep comparing it to the comfort and liking for your own.
We all need to know, what not to say, to a person in grief. See, it is basic, the only shoe you have known is yours. Then inviting you to come and stand in mine, is an invitation to offer you comparison. It is snarling, that such invitation is all about rendering you more judgmental than before. As you will leave your shoes, but you can’t leave your feet behind. Your thresholds, your idea of dealing with situations, your coping and defending mechanisms, your idea of trust, skepticism, tolerance or misbehavior, you bring them along with you. So my shoe, will have a new owner, with different capabilities than my own, and you will treat my shoe in a new manner.
So, it is only the shoe that changes, not your art of positioning your feet. Darling, this is called bringing in perspective. Kindly, parcel it for me from outside, and not meddle with my shoe through your actions. It is my shoe, and it will only require to be mended by me.
You could tell me how to wear it better, or how to tie my lace from what you know through years of doing it yourself. But, do not try to take away my shoe for experimenting.
Hence, don’t try to understand me by becoming me. Because you are not me. Be more tolerant, and just like how we accept without seeing, that there are many more than 3 Dimensions to our world, and an alternate universe, but we still happily co-exist, let us co-exist. I will show you my wounds, let you see the 4th dimension of my 3D body, see it with awe or anger, query about it and learn me like a data point. I think I am better than just data, perhaps for now, just assume I am not.
It is important for me to know, what you think about me; not giving damn about anyone else’s thought, is because I want to know how you feel in your universe, and I wish to know my tolerance towards yours.
I want to test, if I will snap at your revelations. I remember once, I were told, you do not know what is to long for a home, what is hiraeth, when I recited to you my blog stories.
I am willing to explore your inability to feel love, and yet sink into your arms in the night, to feel the warmth of your effortless love.
It is mesmerizing to receipt the touch of lingering fingers on my cheek and neck, love oozes out of it. It is awe inspiring to acknowledge that your heart doesn’t feels a thing, but your lips quiver to kiss me. The hands slide past the consciousness of your unknowing and find the right spots on my back and Breast. I am amazed to know more about your desires, that you think were buried in the ground of your hill top school.
I yearn to scoop out the knowledge or the absence of it, that you posses of you, and then
experiment with the truth of your conscience.
And all this, for? For Us. Precisely me. Because, I believe, and I have faith, through another human, just as big as me, or bigger probably, I have greater chances of exploding out of my body, and find light at the end of the tunnel. This tunnel has no medium to travel. I pocket myself in your universe, to get across, you can pocket in me if you aspire. My journey is a long one, and I am using my body, and yours to get across. Because this is all I have.
And I have chosen you.
You can choose to get down this flight right now if you are afraid of this tiring journey.
I warn like a pilot; we expect turbulence.
And I don’t care what others think, because my choice is undeterred. I have my prototype ready. I need pores in your brain, and openness of your heart, and assurance that we won’t exchange shoes, but only perspectives.
From the Land of Mystica