Bullshit is the little bow that holds the present together. When you untie it, the present is exposed, and the once pretty bow is now an unraveled ribbon pathetically falling to the ground.
What is now, what we find comfort in living amongst is held together by a whole lot of pretty bows which are easily able to be torn apart and undone. We let bullshit hold our lives together. It makes us look pretty, put together, intentional, and meaningful. We hide behind the bows because we think it’s what people want to see. We think people want us to always be put together. We want to feel put together. It’s part of our hierarchy of needs. It’s funny that self-esteem lies just under self-actualization. It’s so close to the top, yet can be so astronomically far away from the truth. We start to believe the excuses we make are valid. We begin to think that our caked on face is prettier than our naked one. It isn’t until we reach the tippy top of Maslows pyrimid that we can see things as they really are. We can see the creases from the liquids and powders we cover ourselves with. We can see the chunks of mascara clotting our eyelashes together. We can see our dark roots growing in under our bleached hair. The view from the top shows a unique truth that pierces through us in the most painful yet beautiful way.
You’ll know when you reach it because it’s so damn hard. It’s like blowing out your birthday candles, only they were trick candles, walking away and then finding out that they relit and burnt your house down. Truth hurts like a burn, and they say burn victims endure the most pain imaginable. So if you’re having trouble reaching your self-actualization, remember that that’s part of the shitstorm. We have to ache, we have to become fed up, transparent, naked, true, and vulnerable.
We want to avoid answering the seemingly easy questions because “what do you want,” “how are you,” “what are you doing,” are actually the hardest and most complicated questions to answer. We follow the guidelines of a made up rule book that keeps getting passed around by other self-conscious, yellow-bellied, amicable conformers. We just can’t help it—doing what we really want, saying what we really mean, just isn’t polite.
Stepping back from the glass sliding door I’ve had my face pressed against for so long that my nose still has a resemblance of a snout, I can finally see the real view of my backyard. I can see those pretty little bows holding myself together. The imprint of my face glares off the glass just so that the sunlight shines right onto yours too. I see those bows, and boy, they are pretty.
It was the day when you said nothing that spoke the loudest.
In that same day, I felt a chill pass through me. It must have been your ghost.
The words stuck on the tip of my tongue toppled over the brim of my lips and fell.
Heavy like a weighted lure, they found the ground quick.
I walked right over them, lifting my legs high.
I felt a cold push on my back, and I propelled myself forward.
Do you know the level in Spyro where you have to fly through hoops and when you do a sound that you would image magic sounds like echoes through your speakers? Yeah, I want that. I want to have a path outlined for me reassuring me along the way that I’m doing the right thing. I actually fantasize about this image often. I can hear that magic ring as I get closer to the finish, and the best part is if I mess up I can try it again. And again. And again until I get what I want. Oh, wouldn’t that be nice?
But unfortunately, life isn’t as magical as the world of Spyro. The dragon in me is a little less cute, and a lot more realistic.
I think part of me has been waiting for the resemblance of a lit up path to appear to me guiding me to a destination, but no such path has materialized. So, understanding that this is not the way to go I look for other things. Possibilities. And there’s a lot of those which is good because I like options. Realizing that there’s no one right way is part of the battle, another part is following through with the moving part of it. You have to move your feet, move your mind, move into a mindset that will get you somewhere you want to be. I’m only now realizing that your destination doesn’t have to be an end all situation. Hell, you don’t even have to know your destination. It’s the journey that’s important. It’s the journey that takes up your time, it’s where you put in the effort, it’s where things matter.
You are actively creating your journey as you go whether you know it or not. You move from the punches being thrown at you, you leap to new places, you find new people, and the whole time your path is changing. Every encounter, every dream is taking you to a place that you don’t know yet. And that’s the real beauty of not having a path.
Facing yourself, the down, damned and dirty. You feel the soot, the sweat, the oil on your face at night. You feel the cracks, the calluses, you pick at the gunk under the fingernails of your fiddling hand.
Facing yourself, the down, damned and dirty.
You know your ugly. You know your regrets, your hate, every unethical thought you’ve had, you spit at yourself in spite and shame. Oh, you know your ugly.
You execute yourself, so willing you put your head on the chopping block, you even cut the damn rope of the guillotine. Facing yourself.
But afterward, you pick up your head and place it back on your shoulders just so as to avert any suspicion of your crookedness. And you walk on.
Your foe, the eyes looking back at you in the mirror, mocks you because they see right through the makeup, the BS, the excuses.
You know what’s real and you know what you fight for. Which is why you walk with that load on your shoulders.
What you expose is your beauty and your strength. Your ugliness, bent, surrenders to the better parts of you. You know your ugly which is why you look so damn good.
Its face is warped, decomposing away. Pieces of its flesh are gone, and bone peeks through like deep puddles on asphalt. Its eyes are like black marbles, large and round with the reflection from the light in front of it shooting out like beams. Reptile like, its skin tears as it stretches its mouth open, screaming at you. Its inaudible scream fills your ears with a numb nothing. Its foul hot breath reaches you as a chill, like a gentle hum running down your body making the hairs down your spine stand up. You straighten yourself, clenching your jaw hard. Your head fills with the piercing pain of holding back tears. You let it scream at you, stare into your eyes with its own empty sodden expression.
And then you scream back. You can’t hear it, but your throat itches and rips as you tear all the breath out of your lungs. Screaming at each other, your screams combine to make a harmony, a harmony that gives you a kind of peace.