And people aren't the source of love... It just passes through us when we let it.
I wish I could just reduce life to the core... to nothing but a conduit for love and inspiration. I want so much to run away from it all. Liquidate all I have and give it to him... Quantify the resources he has invested in me and start paying it back with a loan... and run. Run far, far away so I can start to find myself.
Yet, another part of me knows that no matter how I want to divorce myself from this debt, ultimately there is no seperating me from my father's son.
I've been taking the back seat for the last week. We're just back from our pilgrimage - to Laguna Redang Island Resort!! I'm on leave from work for another week and a half, giving me time to finally sort out my nitty gritty - like getting Gina's new steering box transplant done. Whoopee!
I've had lots of time to stroll, think, pod and ponder about my life's philosophies. Its hard to rationalize an existence when humans are leaving the planet in such massive numbers in disaster after disaster - it keeps me wondering what's next, and where, and getting almost tired of feeling mournful for all the lives lost. Does a greater number of deaths make each death less significant? I guess to a human mind it does.
A dark & morbid part of me does want disaster to come close enough... not enough to kill, but to really shake me - shake me free of all that doesn't matter and leave in my hands what really does - if there is anything at all. And of course another part of me is afraid... and wonders why this drop of life, this moment of existence, can appear so damn real.
Lots has happened in the last couple of days that I can’t put on my public weblog. And since I don’t have an anonymous one, and I want to remember the way I’m feeling now when I read this diary 50 years from today, I guess I can write about the good parts that I’ve taken from this without writing the experience of the bad, and maybe the process of doing that would be constructive for me as well. Such is the gift of writing, isn’t it?
When I read this diary one day, I hope to remember how I struggled blind in the dark pit that I dug, and then how family helped me to shine a light, and in so doing helped me to find my way out of that pit to find vision and clarity again. And with that clarity came relief, and with relief came peace. Personal peace. :)
I hope to remember how I valued that peace and that sense of self-worth above all else. Affirming that I am that I am. And I hope I still remember today, wherever it is in time that I am reading this again.
I hope to remember how I felt my angels pat me on the back like a job well done for being true. For keeping my conscience clear. And for resisting the urge to let my ego get its revenge.
And I hope I remember how I had the best fucking party of my life. ¼ of a century. Glad I made a bang of it. Find me my fucking glass and drink it like its H O T.
