My life is just… so, so, so fucking weird. A weird, weird life. Went through childhood memories, when things were simpler, when things were infinitely more confusing. Things are also infinitely more confusing now, and infinitely more simple, too.
Does it have to make sense? Has anything ever?
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Love and hatred, fondness and resentment, strange bedfellows tucked into my heart. The pillow conversation I’ve had to bear witness to, laying between them, talking over me like I’m not there.
Why must rationale and feeling be in such disagreement? Why must emotion and mind be playing a tug of war with me in the center?
Why am I always the mediator? Always? Always the diplomat. Always the messenger. Inside and outside. Always mending through others’ disagreements, always in the middle, the middle child. Always mediating my own polarized inner universe. When will harmony be given birth to? When will peace reign, when will peace rain?
I look back. Oh, how little has changed. Everything has changed and nothing has changed. Oh, Siddhartha: how beautifully did you put it. How beautifully. That life is a river; every moment made completely anew, its rushing waters before you replaced entirely with each second; and yet it is the very same river. Return after years; it is the very same river, yet entirely, completely different — transitory and permanent all the same.
Yes, this is my life. Looking upon those memories of my youth tonight — nothing has changed. I’m still the same as I was then, yet so vastly different, utterly transformed. But the exact same, all the same…
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 