We love our stories.
We love the villains and heroes and characters that meld and blend the tale told to entertain, inspire, and even frighten us. Yet why?
Why do we enjoy being lied to, being deluded, being mislead, or even spoon fed a version of life much more comfortable?
I shall speculate it is because we were held in such low opinion that we could not handle the truth, without doing something to change it.
In order to continue our joy of story telling, we take on roles, within another's story. Now, sometimes our stories have morals, and codes to live by; and at other times they are warnings or threats. Our entire species in enthralled with these tall tales that we have lost our own way, as a people, to face the truth. Yet what is the truth? But another story we tell ourselves. Truth is not objective or part of the omnipresent plan of being. It is subjective. It's relevance and resonance dependent on the stories that surround our experience.
Each day we face a mirror, or reflection and we create a story of why we look the way we do, why our skin is clear or obscured, why our hair is shiny or greying, why our face does or does not reflect back how we feel we do indeed look. Our mind continuously creates the narrative of our existence, and shapes our vision, our being, and our expression of this self within a vessel of flesh. Our being is so caught up in illusion that we mask our feelings, our intentions and sometimes, our self; just so that another may accept us better.
These masks worn by us each day, tell ourselves, and those around us, who we are at each moment, and sometimes, to present to the world a much more interesting version of our self. Yet what if we are boring, or pretentious, or downright miserable - is it possible to still be accepted? It is likely not the case. Sadly our world is bent on happiness, love, joy and grace that we step back from the ugly, the horrific, the terrible, and the agitating. We have run so far away from our shadow that it is growing greater than our very essence of being. Yet to stand in a mirror naked and look into ones own soul, ones own magnificence seems to be painful. Our soul is perfect. Our minds, emotions, and physical expression of this incarnation at times is not; we are flawed.
So why are we here?
Many may speculate we are here as God learning to experience itself. Others may say we are a being of light here to experience the feelings of the human vessel. Still a few might say we are here simply to be here. It doesn't matter, not really. For what ever reason we hold onto, or resonate with it is a story. Stories are made of words, and while we exist in physical form, we do require a way to express our selves through words. Yet why do we speak? Why do we bother communication our thoughts when sometimes, or many times, our words are misconstrued as another's lie.
Let's say tomorrow, you do not wear a mask, you apply no make up, you leave your hair in a natural state, and keep the slimming colours and garments in the drawer to be brave enough to leave the house as YOU. What would happen? What COULD happen? What story will you share as to why you allow your acne to be seen, or the workouts you didn't do to be known? What lies will you believe just to have a comfortable existence?
No one is without flaws. Everyone has stories they must subscribe to, or else their sanity is lost, or perhaps their own opinion of themself has no merit. Is the ego attached to a story? When we dissolve the ego do we lose the story, or simply another illusion to attach to?
We love the villains and heroes and characters that meld and blend the tale told to entertain, inspire, and even frighten us. Yet why?
Why do we enjoy being lied to, being deluded, being mislead, or even spoon fed a version of life much more comfortable?
I shall speculate it is because we were held in such low opinion that we could not handle the truth, without doing something to change it.
In order to continue our joy of story telling, we take on roles, within another's story. Now, sometimes our stories have morals, and codes to live by; and at other times they are warnings or threats. Our entire species in enthralled with these tall tales that we have lost our own way, as a people, to face the truth. Yet what is the truth? But another story we tell ourselves. Truth is not objective or part of the omnipresent plan of being. It is subjective. It's relevance and resonance dependent on the stories that surround our experience.
Each day we face a mirror, or reflection and we create a story of why we look the way we do, why our skin is clear or obscured, why our hair is shiny or greying, why our face does or does not reflect back how we feel we do indeed look. Our mind continuously creates the narrative of our existence, and shapes our vision, our being, and our expression of this self within a vessel of flesh. Our being is so caught up in illusion that we mask our feelings, our intentions and sometimes, our self; just so that another may accept us better.
These masks worn by us each day, tell ourselves, and those around us, who we are at each moment, and sometimes, to present to the world a much more interesting version of our self. Yet what if we are boring, or pretentious, or downright miserable - is it possible to still be accepted? It is likely not the case. Sadly our world is bent on happiness, love, joy and grace that we step back from the ugly, the horrific, the terrible, and the agitating. We have run so far away from our shadow that it is growing greater than our very essence of being. Yet to stand in a mirror naked and look into ones own soul, ones own magnificence seems to be painful. Our soul is perfect. Our minds, emotions, and physical expression of this incarnation at times is not; we are flawed.
So why are we here?
Many may speculate we are here as God learning to experience itself. Others may say we are a being of light here to experience the feelings of the human vessel. Still a few might say we are here simply to be here. It doesn't matter, not really. For what ever reason we hold onto, or resonate with it is a story. Stories are made of words, and while we exist in physical form, we do require a way to express our selves through words. Yet why do we speak? Why do we bother communication our thoughts when sometimes, or many times, our words are misconstrued as another's lie.
Let's say tomorrow, you do not wear a mask, you apply no make up, you leave your hair in a natural state, and keep the slimming colours and garments in the drawer to be brave enough to leave the house as YOU. What would happen? What COULD happen? What story will you share as to why you allow your acne to be seen, or the workouts you didn't do to be known? What lies will you believe just to have a comfortable existence?
No one is without flaws. Everyone has stories they must subscribe to, or else their sanity is lost, or perhaps their own opinion of themself has no merit. Is the ego attached to a story? When we dissolve the ego do we lose the story, or simply another illusion to attach to?
I wonder what kind of world we would have if there were no words. I will let you create a story about that.
~by Arthena Sophia Aradhana
www.facebook.com/arthena.aradhana
** Image courtesy of: beyondmasquerade.com
Beautiful...
ReplyDeleteThank you sweetie
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