If I were to guess, I’d say they were at the casino feeding slot machines when they should be at home feeding me.
Just kidding, I can feed myself. Mom purposely left pasta out for me to boil.
I always sound so damn helpless when I write truth. Stupid truth….
Anyway, I got home from work tonight at around 9:30 and boiled water for my pasta. While I waited for the pot to boil, I sat at the kitchen table and for the first time in a long time, I was completely alone with myself.
No TV, no internet, no phone, no noise, no flatulent worries that reek my mind. Just me and the kitchen.
I gazed over at our deer head collection.
There went my serenity. Deer heads?
“Why would anyone want to hang death on their wall as a trophy?”
And for a moment I felt like I was on drugs. Sometimes when I’m high (which is roughly once a year), it connects me to the emptiness I experienced for two seconds a while back. Inside the emptiness, you step outside the box (which was never there to begin with), and see things as though it was your first time seeing it and no matter how hard you try, you can’t understand what you’re looking at. And it’s not about judging anything, you simply don’t understand the reason for something.
This is what we do. We hang animal heads on our wall. Why? There are too many reasons why. And once you find a reason, you question the reason too. Why?
A tribute, a trophy, for beauty, for brawn. We defeated our fear of death by killing something beautiful to feast on. The mounted head can symbolize the life we have yet to live. The glory of the hunt, we shall live another day.
Then I looked straight in front of me.
Our house is cluttered with several lifetimes collected on our walls. I remember when my mom made that sack of potato’s in her arts and crafts class. I was there with her and made one too. I was 10 or so. I bought my mom that picture of the last supper one year for christmas. She likes that sort of thing.
Then I sunk slowly into sentiment – it’s not the best place to be. My tarot reader specifically warned me about my sentimentality.
“I won’t be able to live in this house once my parents are gone. Everything will remind me of them. I’ll never stop crying.”
Rational Brain – “You have to appreciate them while they’re here.”
“Do I do enough for them? Do they know how much I love them?”
I’ve experienced true regret only once in my life. It was real down-hearted grief over not being there when my dog died. If I never experienced this deep regret, I never would have learned appreciation like I do now. I never would’ve learned an important facet of love.
My water started boiling.
My business is on the brink of something. Either failure or success, only time will tell. My new esthetician is on the schedule for 35 hours a week and I just rented the two empty rooms upstairs for more treatment rooms. This will cost me a minimum of $2000 a month which I can easily pay if 40 more members sign up. I believe I can reach 40 more. The question is, will I reach it before I go bankrupt?
If I get to take my cross-country motorcycle adventure this year, I’ll head straight to California for a 10 day meditation retreat. I’ll experience true freedom by having all my needs met so I can empty my mind into the emptiness and open my innocent untainted eyes for the first time to connect me with the infinite potential.
It’s real. That’s what’s crazy. It’s a real place, the emptiness. Monks spend years trying to find it, but I found it while falling to sleep while listening to an audiobook. Albeit it was only for two seconds, but that’s all I needed to understand it.
If I were to experience emptiness while being under the influence of ayahuasca and step into the gateway, I could get lost in there. I’ll come back being a guru or something.
I should stop blogging for the night. Before leaving work tonight I surfed the net to escape my mind for a while and ended up on a website that showed pictures they claimed would “make me gush tears”. And it did. I gushed. It’s still lingering in my system like caffeine.
I hate when I get like this, but I’m extra sensitive lately. Stress makes me more susceptible to feeling things deeper than norm. It’s like walking around with an open wound that can get infected. And it’s painfully addicting to keep picking at it. Almost like you don’t want it to heal. If it heals, you’ll have nothing to pick at anymore.
Perhaps my sentimentality is a form of control? No no, I have to stop blogging. No more questions tonight.