Whenever someone writes about endurance, my chest begins to tighten up like I could throw up the delicious ice-cream cone that I’ve just consumed.
I admire those who can take a lot without ever defending themselves. They take it, they swallow it, and that’s the trouble gone. Take the blame, whatever. For some reason, they love you for it; it’s like you’ve washed their hands clean from sin.
Blame me, and my heart won’t be stirred by it at all. It’s the art of indifference. There is a lot to fight against, but there are people who are not worth the effort. So I try to view it as a child’s game.
We come up with so many concepts that educate and inspire the young. This young person feels alive when he is courageous. He would take risks and gamble with his life.
Years later, he’ll realise that experience is an influence that has planted many seeds in his mind and body, and they might not be good harvests. This is how anxiety comes to life. But I ignore it. I try to view it as a child’s game as much as I can.
I know I need a territory that’s spacious enough to accommodate my mess, although I’m not sure what mess, as I throw away a lot of things. Once it’s gone, I don’t think about it, no matter how attached I’d felt to the object. Maybe a person changes; after all, I don’t know. But really, the moment you view something like a child’s game, you no longer find the seriousness behind it all, and you let go because the Mickey Mouse bullshit no longer matters.
In the end, there are a lot of things that you don’t care about, but you can’t make them go away. I forgot about those. If only scars were like bruises.
Once you have your shit together doesn’t mean you’ve gained faith, it simply means you have put away your kids’ toys, nothing else. Faith is something different…
On the other hand, playing a child’s game for real is a whole different scenario. Two adults who play Mickey Mouse Bullshit are sacred, and I never realised the value behind it. Play games where losing and winning do not matter.
Don’t you sometimes close your eyes and teleport yourself somewhere? And when you open your eyes, you are still here. I guess this is what P. K. Dick meant when he said reality didn’t go away. To me, the reality is the result of soberness so far stretched; it ends up being like hours after a joint. Sometimes the melancholy involved can be very romantic, and you shed some appreciative tears, but it also happens that you come to realise something unpleasant.
Like now, I feel hot, I feel heavy, and I am not sure how long the ice is going to hold me. Do you ever try to look at your feet when you’re dreaming? I don’t think it’s possible, but we can turn it into a children’s game and call it, “Where are my feet?” This game will be of purpose.
I need that.
