Oftentimes,
What keeps me up at night is this feeling that gnaws at me that I have not done enough,
That I am not enough.
The thought of not living up to my fullest potential is a gut-wrenching feeling that consumes the bowels of my being.
It lurks in the shadows at night and screams for my attention.
I try to close the door to muffle the feeling of panic that time is sneaking away.
The dread of waking up each day,
Unsatisfied,
Unaccomplished,
Unfulfilled,
Feeds the dejected gang of miserable voices in my closet.
First comes pressure.
He is a sturdy,
Robust fellow,
An unwavering warrior wielding the blade of expectation.
He stands in my way apathetically silent.
The kind of silence that reminds me of what my father wants of me,
What my mother wants of me,
What my family lineage demands of me,
And what I demand of myself.
A chorus of stories designed to keep my feet stuck in the mud.
Then comes embarrassment.
She is the goblin hiding under the crevices of the bridges and tunnels of my mind.
Her teasing comments of ridicule summon forth her friend shame.
The two of them recite all the times when I was made the fool,
All the times when I was made to feel wrong and less than perfect.
In that wrongness,
I covered my eyes from the truth and saw the world through a lens of competition and comparison.
Why can't I be more like him or her?
I will never have what they have.
I will never live like they live.
Soon enough,
The creeping vines of jealousy clutch my throat and pull me out from the constraints of pressure.
Oh,
Jealousy.
She liberates me from embarrassment and shame because she is angry.
Angry at the world for their demands,
Its injustice and its incessant compulsion to devour me and those like me only to spit us out,
Cracked and broken.
Jealousy.
She is the commander in anger's army and she wants it all.
She wants to prove her worth.
She pushes and pulls in this fight for acknowledgement.
She demands that all who have wronged me and stopped me from ascending to my rightful place in this life must suffer.
Every thought and action taken henceforth is done at the benefit of my gain and their loss.
Because there is not enough for us all and if I don't take a stand first,
Someone else will take my place.
And so this battle of proving my value and worth ensues in this war on life.
In time I grow tired as the ancient Incans and Romans grew tired.
This warfare is tired.
What if it could be different?
What if the point of all this struggle was that it's an opportunity to break free of the entire act of struggling itself?
What if there's appreciation for the pressures from my family?
And appreciation for the self-inflicted pressures placed on myself?
What if getting my feet stuck in the mud was a pre-required frustration to break free?
What if those memories of embarrassment and ridicule were to be treasured as teachers of resilience and compassion?
Resilience to the struggle of life and compassion for all the hurt parts of self?
What if by playing the fool I became more impassioned and carefree,
The fearless fool,
Heartstrings on sleeves,
Unafraid to take risks?
What if every time I felt wrong or less than perfect was perfect in the grand scheme of things?
What if every time I competed with another or myself or compared my worth with another or myself was the beginnings of refining passion into empowered purpose?
What if I thanked jealousy instead of shaming her?
What if I thanked anger for igniting the spark of justice deep within?
What if the only way to shine brighter with more truth and love was for the world to devour me and to spit me out?
What if the cracks in my brokenness were designed for the light of possibility to come through?
What if I understood that all those who have hurt me or wronged me or just like me,
Trying their very best?
What if the goal is not in the destination,
But on the journey towards loving you as me and me as you?
What if your loss was my loss and my gain was your gain?
What if every negative thought served as a constant reminder for presence and awareness?
What if the story I was taught to believe no longer exists?
Fight the good fight,
Climb to the top,
Make something of yourself to prove yourself to yourself?
What if these stories disintegrated like the horizon melting into the sea?
What if the first noble truth that life is suffering wasn't intended for despair,
But was intended as a warning on the psychological pitfalls of identifying with what isn't real?
What if the only thing that was real was the love I feel bursting through the chambers of my heart?
What if all of my imperfections are perfectly perfect and I was only lost to be found?
What if all that I struggle against were no longer a struggle?
What if I were free,
Completely free,
Free to moan and wail,
Free to dance and sing through the turbulent river of life,
Free to love and free to be?
