Your Favorite Color

2024.07.30

Good morning that wonderful way.

At it again.

Been posting the same day.

Does it change the nature of the session?

Of course.

And art is all about audience.

Sure, we write for the act of being honest to the story, to the moment of the act of writing itself.

But the words have to go somewhere or we're just talking to ourselves.

Which, if you're like me and rather charming and quite interesting, isn't such a bad thing to do.

Some folks write to see their thoughts so they can make better sense of them.

So, they're writing to Reason and the ways of the human race.

Not just to hear themselves click clack or slide a pen.

I know you.

I've watched you my whole life, the way you struggle with what ought to be the simplest things.

And it's not a fault of yours; just the opposite.

You struggle because you're compassionate and the world means so much to you.

Your care adds a struggle that most others don't have.

Compassion ought to lessen our struggles, not add to them.

There's a couple of things to do here: Go cold and callous so you can live life at others chosen speed, that fast track in order to be successful

Or you can recognize you're not the problem, the problem is that there's any problem at all.

A world where compassion is a character fault is a world headed for demise.

Realize that why you hurt is because life means so much to you.

Realize to get anyone else to see this would require getting them to sit down and spend some quality time with themselves.

Alone.

But it's our medicine.

We can't value life if we make fighting just to live the default way to live.

It makes us value fighting and not life.

Sit alone with your unease.

'What a waste of time,' you may think at first.

But keep sitting; stare off into space.

Feel the feelings that come, not when you shut the world off, but when you shut off the grim expectations of everybody else.

It's no wonder you have such a hard time falling asleep; you have to be alone with yourself to do it.

And who is that stranger?

You share a bed with yourself, you ought to at least know your favorite color.

Mine changes all the time.

It's an injustice to myself, and to colors themselves, to lock myself into only one.

But who and what we are stays true.

What is left over when nothing else is left over but you?

Seems you might want to know that person before you die.

Seems kind of rude to ignore them when they're around all the time.

When we don't know ourselves, it means somebody, a lot of other somebodies, know us.

Which means we have a place in their lives, not in our own.

Whether a friend, or a coworker, you're a prop in their life.

I wish you'd sit alone for some time every day, ten minutes, maybe an hour, set a lunch date with yourself.

Find out what you love, and what the world means to you.

When we all do this, we'll find out we have so much in common.

Our moments will start to consciously matter to each other.

In the end, the greatest and only true gift we can share with each other, is our time.

Decide who and what you are and share some time with yourself.

Mine, too.

Maybe we'll meet for lunch sometime and talk about anything at all.