Such attachment, such care, such limitless tenderness and affection, not a bad thought, no hint of any kind of criticism or hostility, love is all there is, I’m bathing in an ocean of unconditional and pure love, sweet as honey, such are my feelings towards myself.

Everything I say, I say to make my case, all I do is for my own gain, everything I see, I see through my will to receive pleasure.

What if I would realize that I don’t have a case, that there is no personal gain, and that real pleasure is not inside myself? Would it be heaven, or would it be hell?

Wake up, wash face, drink coffee, ride bus, work, eat, watch shows, drink, eat, lay, sleep, wake up, wash face, drink coffee… On such a background (aka life), what can be done, what can be gained or lost? Calories? Purpose? Day or night? Awake or asleep?

Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. There’s something missing. Not just something. Something substantial. The problem is that there are just too many distractions. So I don’t see what it is. But something’s missing. Something central. It’s not food. It’s not knowledge. Not sex. …

“…All that pre-corona physical connection with people, do you miss it?”

“Yes. I mean, the animal in me does, the human doesn’t.”

“What do you mean by ‘human’?”

“That tiny, extremely small part within me that is looking for a less physical, more thought- and heart-based connection.”

AND all the stuff that I cannot justify, all the stuff in my personal life and all the stuff going on in the world. AND the feeling that you had enough. AND the feeling of despair from having nothing new to replace all the stuff with. AND the unexpected help…

“Did you ever feel it to the bone, that you’re dependent on others to the degree that you can’t move an inch, or even think a thought, cause there is nothing in you to do or think, but everything you feel is from within the connection with them?”

“No, did you?”

“No.”

“Soon.”

“Yes.”

Come to think of it, it’s (not) obvious: there’s no such thing as THE world. There is only MY world, or his world, or her world. We all see different things, feel, hear. Of course, to me, MY world is THE world. I wish I could see that it’s really so. Then that it’s not.

Mr. B has a family, a house, a dog, and a job. And time. And a hobby actually. But he doesn’t have time for the hobby. Is he happy? Well, he works most of the time, but occasionally while washing the dishes or feeding his kids or Buster, he feels a sting of joy, meaning he’s happy to help.

Sometimes. Sure. Sometimes I make excuses. Just to get by I guess.

I had a scary thought though. What if my whole life is an excuse, like the wall surrounding the castle preventing you from overthrowing the tyrant king — the Ego. Why am I always guarding the bastard, with my life?

Staffan Carle

Translator, forklift driver, father, student of human integral systems, expat in Japan

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