||[Aug. 31st, 2007|09:00 am]
We've all been buried alive. You, me, all of us. Suffocating to death, not allowed to think for a second too long, not allowed to question events of the past, present and God forbid future, not allowed to have enough time, energy or assets to do much other than prolong the mundane aspects of our lives. The pressures to keep us uninformed, unimagined, unintelligent, uncaring are many, they are relentless and they are omnipresent. Distractions and deceptions abound. Covering us up, with dust and dirt and decay and death. Making it hard to see things. Making it hard to feel things. How much left of our lives is really real? What is this reality that has become of us? Why will people look at you like you are foolish or insane or delusional at best simply because you ask whether or not there must be a better way.|
Most simply just brush away any of these feelings more than "happy enough to keep moving through the drudgery of life without any real truth, without any real meaning without caring about anything that might actually matter. Instead we'll worry about trumped up details of public figures and storybook lives of those who earn celebrity mostly through keeping us away from looking at ourselves or anything that is really going on around us. Sleepwalking through everyday. We're all dead most of the time. I myself included. Not because I don't choose to see, to learn, to talk about, to care about that which goes on around me and those people that struggle to breathe with me...but because it's so hard to breathe when buried alive.
I cry a lot. I cry when I see great things, and most often I see these great things happening in fictitious works. Sometimes I cry when I see people reaching out, struggling to breathe, struggling to get a glimpse of what lies on the other side of the mountain of dirt that has covered their lives.
It's so hard to breathe, it's so hard to know where to start digging when you're 6 feet underground, which direction is up, so easy to be mistaken, so easy to dig the wrong way, so hard to do things when your senses are railed against daily, blinding you from that which is truly going on around you.
I find it hard to move nowadays. So hard to move when you're buried. So hard to breathe when you're suffocating. Yet, I still struggle. I'll survive because something inside of me knows I have to, won't let me stop looking for air, won't let me stop looking for the surface. Some other part of me won't even let me dig for the top first. Some other part of me tells me to dig to the sides and find the hands of others. Some other part of me tells me that I'm not supposed to be the first to the top but the last.
Herein lies the paradox of my life. How much strength can you have to help those around you when you yourself are struggling to help yourself. How can you begin to uncover the lives of others when you seemingly need to uncover your own first. Isn't it easier to excavate others once you have excavated yourself? Though the danger there lies that once you yourself are free to breathe, free to walk around on top that you will have a harder time finding those that were once trapped around you.
I just want you to know that I love all of you. I love you all because you're buried with me. I love you all because I hope to see you one day in the light with this weight lifted off of your chest and the dirt removed from your mouth. Don't give up. Don't surrender no matter how hard it is to breathe no matter how much your arms ache from digging no matter how much it hurts your soul to hear the digging and crying and screaming of others. Don't give up. Do it for yourself. Do it for me. Do it because a time will come where the lines in the sand are drawn more easily and your outstretched hand will grasp on to something that truly matters. Those days draw near and I look forward to when we can all brush the dirt off together, stand beside one another, breathe the free air around us and stand against those that have buried us for far too long.