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P33ish050: Progress, Perfection, And The Art Of Intentional Loving


I love love. I love it as an intentional decision. I love it as a repeated unwavering choice. Deliberate love is a gift. It is life itself. But life is getting harder by the day. What with love becoming more conditional and intentions getting less trusted. We actually now live (or maybe it's me who's just now catching up) in a world where people extra scrutinize a genuine in-the-moment kind act and are usually just taking an intentionally good gesture with bated breath for when the mask falls off. But hey, trust issues aside now, nobody really wants to see what's behind that put-together exterior, don't matter what they say. And "living your truth" has now become more of a slogan than an actual lifestyle because your lovers don't really wanna see your truth. They can't handle it. Force 'em to hear it and folks might even stone you for it. People want to be a part of your life without your demons or your suitcase of issues. But of course, they'd also rather relate with you through their own masks too, so it's no particular disrespect to your own fa├žade, mon amour: everyone's just out chasing the good time; all suitcases out of sight. So if your love isn't gasping for dear life every time the suitcase gets opened, then you better thankfully hold on to it: you're one of the blessed few; the test of time is yours to ace.

I think (most of) the people who love us just can't bring themselves to actively consider that we might possess a level of fuckedupness too. Because then there would have to be a conversation about it. And those conversations are without mushiness. Sometimes they are unholy. And they require actual action, in dealing with. So they (and this could swing either way: with them on this side of this table and you over there) just prefer us to be one way, and the moment the mask cracks -- as it inevitably would when your overly suppressed insides boil over -- everyone takes cover. And that's the point where the worst of us venomously lash out; and the best of us just...well, crash. Because although no one likes to admit it, there is always a dissonance between the upstanding person we're daily trying to be, for the sake of doing our part in global good, and the person inside of us that needs to get heard every now and then, for balance's sake: because perfection is a myth. And this is where some of our anxieties get birthed: because the person inside isn't always quite picture perfect. And the more s/he stays boxed, the more s/he rots. And Lord have mercy should an accident happen: stink everywhere. 


I think personal relationships would have been the surest ways to fix this; 'cause I have no problem going out and being what the outside world needs me to be everyday if I can come home and have my bare soul made love to, mask off: no pressure. But then everyone is keeping their masks and their safety latches on even behind closed doors because the one doesn't want to get ripped for something the other person wishes they weren't, and the other doesn't want to let their guard down too low 'cause they don't trust that the one would be there when they said they would, doing what they said they'd be: choosing them, flaws and all.

And so we're just all going through life trying to come off like we're not occasionally selfish, or don't get mad, or have demons...or some darkness in our soul.

And so people get off having a warped view of what it means to be good: like it's a state where you never blow it, because out here your bites just dulls your kisses, and your angel adornments just as quickly gets a Beelzebub graffiti; because nobody gets that if anyone was all frills and roses inside, there wouldn't be a need for deliberate acts of kindness or consciously putting other people first. And how fucked up has all that gotten us: holding ourselves to image standards that leave no room for cracks? Fucked up.

And lonely. And unable to receive love. And depressed. And disappointed. Repeatedly. 


Pffft!

I really just woke up having one of those moods where my mind rehashes some of my less stellar performances. And because no one understands the lifespan of hurt better than me, I got my usual do-gooder fix-it impulse to reach out and just send a feel-good word to a person or two who might have been bruised by my 'human' tendencies; triggered or reactive or nah. It is an impulse that I now have learned to quell, though, because not everyone gets the gesture and so it could very easily be misunderstood or misinterpreted, or even outright abused; and because shit really does happen and you're just gonna have to gut up and live with the fact that you too are capable of making said shit rain; and the best you can do is make a conscious intentional decision to do better going forward and act different under same triggering circumstances...while all the way staying true to YOU and not gaslighting your own self, of course. Because if you don't lie to you about you, no one can.

I wish you love. I wish you the "soul's home" kind of love where you're not afraid to unmask: the kind where it's a new decision every morning. And the kind, of course, where what you're sure you have, is what you do in fact have. I wish you truth. 

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