Every morning, the author finds himself struggling with foes long since vanquished and fighting battles long since passed. Whether he is kneeling in meditation, bending through a set of sun salutations, or sitting quietly before the day's first meal, memories – some of them decades old – loom up out of the time-fog and demand his attention. If he is careless, and if he allows the insecure and self-loathing portions of his mind to ponder the images and fragments of feeling that swirl up before his inner eye, he risks having to deal with them for the rest of the day, week, or month. Some of the memories are so powerful that they cause immediate visceral reactions, quickening his blood and stoking the anger within his chest, which then interfere with his ability to do yoga, write, and treat other people gently and with due reverence.
Short of frontal-lobe lobotomy, the author knows of no quick cure for his recurring torment; to bring it to heel, he must primarily use love's soothing touch and the patient application of time-tested methods, among them the application of ancient teachings. Some parts of him, however, do not want to let go of the past. Some parts of him – likely the ones which manifest in churning tempests of rage – hide within the the memories of failed loves, within the harsh lessons burned deeply into his psyche, feeding off of frustrations dealt with years ago and bullying his quiet and tender bits by dragging things he thought he had let go of long ago back to the forefront of his thinking.
Part of the problem is that he cheats regularly – he allows his discipline to slip, joins in the merry-making of other people, and engages in the damaging and counter-productive habit of voicing his opinion in particular and of speaking in general. Vast are the benefits of silence, and many are the blessings that stillness brings. Oh how terrible is this beauty.
mentiri factorem fecit © 場黑麥
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