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All there Is is Love

All there is is love, and I am too out of touch with myself most of the time to feel it. It is so difficult to find myself, to love myself, to feel open enough to the pain and loss and starkness of life, to feel the love and the hate and the fear that I have for everyone, to let myself feel what there is to feel. To let myself feel me.

What if there is nothing there? What if Iím not as interesting as TV, or the next meal? Or the girl next door? What if I hate myself, or Iím bored, or I canít find who I am, or Iím lost, or I waste my time, or I donít know how to love, or no one loves me, or I just donít care? What if I just donít care? What if I just canít feel? What if I hate you and hate myself and just canít feel? Sometimes - often - Iím lost, and I just donít care.

How do I find myself? Do I have to be more quiet, less compulsively active? Do I just sit and feel more, not try so hard to defend myself, just let the world in? God, I fear you and hate you and loathe you and need you so much. And I am so powerless to keep you from hurting me. And I feel your confusion and fear and hatred and love, too. It makes me so afraid that I have to plan how to get away from you and to control you and to be more powerful than you so that you canít hurt me and get at me and leave me alone until I need you and only then for a certain time so that I can run away again soon. I have to make myself powerful with money and prestige so I can control you and so youíll love me and then go away and leave me alone with my treasure of money and power and love.

Everything that happens is a test, no, a meeting of inner and outer worlds. Am I here? Am I actually letting myself feel what's happening in the moment? Or am I in my head, rushing to a later moment better than the one in front of me? Do I deserve all this? Why is precisely this happening to me right now? How am I related to what I see before me? Iím adrift between fronds of circumstance in an ocean of time. Can I see where I am? Iím blind with fear and memories of where Iíve been, where I need to go, who loves me, who hates me, and how to save myself from drowning, alone, in this ocean of love and fear and hate and of my certain death.

Why am I alive? What is my purpose here? What is there for me to do? Is there anything for me to do? Perhaps there is nothing for me to do than to just be, to let myself unfold. Can I let myself unfold? How do I let myself unfold? Can I be that unmanipulative of my life, of my self? Do I still have a clue as to how to be that innocent, that virginal, that guileless unto myself?

Who am I? Am I worth living? Is my life worth living? Where is the juice of it, the rush, the excitement, the meaning, the exaltation of just being alive? What do I do when I lose it, when I lose that exaltation, when I lose the great feeling? Is that when I doubt myself - when I lose the great feeling? Is that when Iím afraid I canít feel at all - when Iím not feeling anything special in the moment? Is that when I doubt myself and hate myself and avoid others? We are lost in this sea of life "Till human voices wake us and we drown."

I want to drown in myself. I want to feel myself going down for the last time into myself, never to awaken again from the sea of life, totally identified with life and my body and the moment forever. No! Wait! That is not what I want! To be totally identified is to be totally lost from my true self, my larger self, the self that sees all this and guides me through the valley of the shadow of death, that guides my mortal, trembling body through this hell.

Save me from this hell of life. Can you save me from the hell of life? No, to live authentically, moment to moment, I have to live in hell. I must let you have access to me, to really get me where it hurts, where I canít protect myself, where weíre equals in power and defenselessness. Where you can hurt me. And you will.

This essay was written in June 1999 after seeing Robin Williams' What Dreams May Come. At first I was too ashamed to read it out loud or to show it to anyone because I was afraid that my guile or craft had infected my words or crept between me and my truth. But after receiving lots of positive feedback (particularly from people saying they had identified with my feelings), I decided to bring it forward.



my poetry

a short story




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