False Living

Our childhood, personal experiences and cultural/environmental conditioning have led us to form a mental image of who we are and how to live—living a false self, one who clings to the past and postpones everything to the future.

A false self if ever, rarely lives in “the moment”—the past and present are ONLY significant to the false self. It is only concerned in keeping the past alive because without the past it does not know who it is; it believes the past defines the self. The false self consistently lives into the future because it seeks fulfillment/contentment/success/wealth there—because it is unhappy (despises/ashamed of) "the past” and am never satisfy with “the present.” The false self may seem to be sincerely concern with the present moment, but it views the world with eyes of the past and lies of an uncertain future.

You are a true-self if you are “living in the moment.” You are aware that you are “the witness” of your thoughts, you listen you what you are thinking and why you are thinking what you are thinking—you are the observer of yourself—you are the observer of your being. A true-self lives in the moment; it does not regret the past and worry/burden about the future. The true-self lives in joy because it understands “now” is the only “time” it has…Is “now” not magical?

For My Love (2)

I met a dreamer, whose spirited determination stirs the stagnant night and stills the stirring wanderers, a man as handsome as the Prince of Morning. His majestic charm is infinite and his generosity is unmeasured. A cheerful traveler, whose voice, sweet like a musical sea, overflows the brain; so piercing, it spreads joy forth to every listener.

There is no knowledge of whence he comes or where he goes; surely, he must be some deity lost in a world of woes. As I hear him, my teary-eyes pour with compassion. He sings in a language whose strange melody did not belong to the earth. He sings of a loneliness more dread than the tone of loss. I knew he yearns for companion, for an immortal love. He, whose heart is most perfect, the wise, the beautiful, the poet, and the philosopher cannot define the boundaries of his embrace.

With a sudden deep desire to love him, I cry: “Wait! I will carry your burden–for you are possessed with thoughts too swift and strong for one lone breast—for your responsibilities are great–for a woman can bear much.”

The stranger turns and stretches a hand to me. My composure in wonderment and utter disbelief; surely, he is a deity, for no human can perceive the thoughts I spoke.