Life, as I make of it, seems to be a delicate balance between misanthropy and empathy. Every moment that I live, I am mindful of the tug-of-war that happens when either of these sentiments threaten to take over me completely. Sometimes, I empathize so much with the other person, drowning myself more in their troubles than they would dare to themselves, that I’m afraid of morphing into some sort of a yes-(wo)man.
Yes, I understand you completely. Yes, I see how your conditioning blinds you. Yes, I agree that your insecurities can trap you in a prison that nobody else can see. Yes, you are limited by your person. Yes, you are scared of your own power. Yes, yes, yes.
But wait, what about ME? What about how you treated me? What about the possibility of exercising free will? What about order in the world? What about some space for magical chaos? What about, what about beauty that doesn’t see the light? And the condonation of ugliness? What about some leeway for miracles amidst the mundane?- why won’t you allow for it? Why won’t you let me assert myself, and sell my worldview to you?- it’s a lot more beautiful than yours; yours, that causes you harm, and constructs hell within you. It’d be a beautiful world if you share in on it- my worldview.
Oh, but I don’t want to be dogmatic. I don’t want to be a preacher. I would rather live my philosophy, than ask you to live it for me. But it confuses me sometimes- is it true empathy to simply let the human condition be, or to be reminding it of its power- of transformation, of the enveloping, ‘bubble’ nature of love- or even hate for that matter, but, oh, you follow my drift, or don’t at all.
This entire soliloquy is an exercise in futility. And yet, it’s getting easier to breathe.