I Know Nothing

I know nothing about myself. In acknowledging this, I allow myself to change. You’d think having a definition of yourself would be good. A stabilizing thing. Most of the time it feels that way. Good and stabilizing. Secure. But more and more I understand that I shift and blend like sand and the patterns I draw on my beach cannot be permanent or I cease to be a beach and become more like those strange lacquered sandcastles that populate gift shops — frozen and removed from my source.

Is it possible to simply be? Without judging. Without constantly feeling as though everyone can see you through the windows of your car. Without thinking you’re somehow noticeable, more than just a current among currents in the great river. In present-day America we are taught it is better to be the center of attention, to have the huge, homogenized eye of the universe stare with unblinking awe at our accomplishments. To be more of whatever it is than anybody else. When I think about the hunted creatures who live frozen in the idiot headlights of fame, it seems to me that fame kills, and yet we are taught to desire it on as large a scale as we can get it and to hell with the consequences to our selves. We are told that approval comes from outside and the one with the most approval wins.

Well, to hell with outside approval! I ratify myself! I will express myself without censure, without restraint, with passion and drama and complete honesty. I will leap and change with impunity. I will laugh at the sky and accept its kisses upon my head until I hear drums and taste roses. I will hold hands with the sister in my soul, jump rope with her, learn her secret name. The moon will be the spotlight in our circus, revealing with each new moment more of how little we actually know about me.

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