Self-Revelation is Annihilation of Self
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My last entry was selfish. Reading it the next day I felt extremely sick. I was completely disgusted with myself. I started this page again with one rule: this time it cannot be about me. And I broke that rule horribly.
The first time I wrote like this I was a senior in high school. Each entry focused on the base minutiae of my trite American life. I explained my entire life away. I named names and worse. I touched no one. It was selfish. I told myself that no matter what happened this time I would transcend the patheticisms of my daily routine, that I would write about my world in a way that touched your own.
And with my last entry I failed.
Many people sent me messages telling how much that entry meant to them. Their empathy did me no good. I knew I had failed myself, violating the only purpose I had laid out before me.
It took a good friend to help me realize that. After work I went out for drinks with friends. It was like old times. Bushmills on the backs of Camels, carrying me to land of Jollys and deep sleep. A girl I had taken out on a few dates was conveniently sat next to our table. Our eyes met only once. I smiled–a deep wicked smile. It was the kind of night I was in desperate need of.
After we were done, I followed a friend home to sleep at her place. I did not, do not, feel safe at my apartment. Even now I worry about my car, sitting vulnerably outside my apartment. The hunter’s prey. We arrived at her place and retired to sleep. I collapsed on her bed completely spent–the previous week of overtime and random hostilities weighing heavily on me. She changed and crawled into bed, insisting that I strip down to get more comfortable.
After a few objections, I complied. We laid there and talked. At first about nothing–raunchy jokes and innuendos. And soon we settled into the most platonic of positions, spooning. Innocence. There was no tension, just good friends who happen to differ by one chromosome. The X and Y of our lives. For some reason the closeness of the situation pushed our conversation to intimate levels. We discussed life, religion, love, relationships…
She opened up and I realized she was stricken with many of the same questions that I was. She was pained by her inability to commit, to connect, to love, to care, to simply coexist with someone of interest. She was plagued by questions surrounding her own humanity…our purpose. And I laid there, mostly listening, stroking the one piece of flesh which escaped from the bottom of her shirt. And I thought…
I thought how my last entry was so entirely selfish.
Yes, the last few months have been painful. Yes, I have been tested and tried more than most. But my problems are entirely American and petty: broken windows and computer errors. The children of the world who do not eat tonight would envy my most favorable of woes. Everyone hurts and everyone needs; I am no different. I am truly fortunate that my life is as good as it is. My loved ones are alive, well even. My own body a biological work of genius–breathing without thought, beating without effort, trillions of chemical reactions occurring silently. My mind, although tormented, is sharp and agile–clever does not even begin to describe me.
As I laid with her I realized how similar she was to me. She’s different, so very different. But at our core we both longed for the same things–happiness, harmony, and peace. And is she so different from you? Am I? No. My problems are nothing. My questions unoriginal. My curse uninspiring. We are all trying to get through the day–alone and together.
It was nice. Lying with someone without anticipation or worry. Simply enjoying the feel of skin without fear, and seeing yourself in them, even with your eyes closed.
At one point I stated on this page that I am not a person, but an idea. And I was right then. I lost sight of that. I do not exist in the most traditional sense. I transcended the flesh so long ago. Self-revelation is the annihilation of self. God-consciousness. Zen. Samsara. Whatever you call it…the principle is the same; the idea lives on. And that idea is universal: the recognition of human suffering and kinship with all people. I became selfish and my rage was turned on the very people I longed to help. I lost sight…
I am sorry on some levels. And for what I do not know. I am sorry that I claimed that I had fallen. I was born the Fallen. We all were. That is our story. That is our great commission: to find what has been lost, and gained, and lost again and again and again…
I am sorry that I forgot about what is important. I made it about me, but it is and always should be about you. I do not deserve to be so fortunate. People die every second.
Someone just died.
And again.
And again.
Every second.
Again.
But people are also born. Now. Now. And now.
The cycle of life and death…a macrocosm of microcosm me. And you. We are the Fallen. It took the soft skin and softer tongue of a good friend to help me realize that. I know she did not mean to inspire me, and in some ways that is the most beautiful part. Our night together illuminated the gift of our collective curse so brilliantly. Even with eyes closed…for we do not need eyes to see, only vision, which she granted me so sweetly.
I am Elliott James Griffin.
I am an idea. Nothing more.
And I am sorry for losing sight of that.
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