“The task of a philosopher: we should bring our will into harmony with whatever happens, so that nothing happens against our will and nothing that we wish for fails to happen.” ~ Epictetus
It was so much easier to write when I was reading every day, like the Universe was giving me points to focus on. Without those little nudges of inspiration my words seem to drone on in endless repetition. Those other minds always seemed to reinforce the arguments I have been regurgitating since I was a child, but without them I feel like some idiot wandering down the street mumbling unintelligible nonsense to myself. I should get an empty cup and try to at least get some change out of it… a statement that gleams with a Shakespearean double meaning, but only to this brain, that has suffered this life, in this way (The line I was prompted to recite, not the obvious double meaning).
I still feel like a puzzle piece that has been thrown in the wrong box; they keep trying to fit me into the picture, but once their picture has been completed they realize that mine doesn’t belong and they toss it out with the wine bottles and crumpled up pages of their forever unfinished novel.
What I’ve learned in my journey is that most feel as though they don’t belong, as if it is some romantic ideal that we desperately grasp onto, a statistical cousin to demanding misery as proof of brilliance. I believe, though, that the biggest puzzle is liquid, and we would all fit beautifully if we let go of the ego demanding that we are this or that shape, whether it be defined by our selfish desires, or be the dysfunctional remnants of what we were told we are when we all died at birth.
This is the elusive puzzle that no one can see beyond the infinite pictures being constructed that we have been tricked into putting worth on; the forest through the trees. Man’s greatest fault is taking himself too seriously; that ignorant self importance is what’s destroying a potentially beautiful existence.
Just be you, not who you think you’re supposed to be, and love people for who they are, not for who you want them to be. Nothing will ever be as beautiful as who we are. We’ve lost that beauty as a species.
It doesn’t matter how well you fit into this delusion, all that matters is how much time and energy you waste in this brief existence focused on those things, which is a special kind of useless when they are things you can’t control: you are not old, or fat, or ugly, or short, or stupid, or anything else that thinking makes so; you were born beautiful, and it is up to you to find and immerse yourself into the liquid puzzle of the Universe.
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