He calls himself a writer, but does not practice. Instead, he checks Facebook, emails, Instagram, and Facebook, again. He twists his beard, ripping out long black hairs that spread out over his MacBook. He has not shaved in months. His pubic hair is longer than his unerect dick. He wears a beanie, some bracelets, some necklaces. I guess its fair to call him a Hipster, though he would never refer to himself this way, like most of them.
Most of the time, he says “I don’t know,” even without there being a question.
He does not know what to write about. He does not know where to go next. He does not know what to say. He does not know what there is to know.
He can’t let go of his mind. Or maybe, his mind can’t let go of him?
His mom made sure he always had something to think about, something to figure out. He was rewarded for being a good thinker, praised for knowing the alphabet at age 4, backwards.
“You are so smart,” she said. “How do you call this tree here?”
Out of the blue, his mom threw questions at him. “Nine times eight,” she would say.
Now, he does that to himself, surprising himself with questions that seem to need an answer, problems that need to be figured out. But do they?
His parents argued, a lot.
What about? No one ever knew, really.
They seemed to move in circles, getting nowhere. They enjoyed arguing. They used all kinds of topics, like changing to summertime, how to put cutlery in the dishwasher, or how to water the garden, to fight out unresolved resentments from the past, afraid of saying what needed to be said.
Back then, he would sit in his room, play with his plethora of pricy toys, and silently comment on his parents argument, hhm-ing and huhm-ing to himself. Today, he sits with his expensive computer in coffee shops, and argues with the voices inside his head, hhm-ing and huhm-ing to himself
He argues with his thoughts, like he did with his parents as a child.
Sometimes, his mind starts fighting with itself, for no apparent reason. ‘But,’ ‘because,’ ‘why,’ ‘you know.’ His mind splits itself, creating two or more sides that argue with each other. Often, he loses himself in this never-ending stream of thoughts. Like a bottomless black hole, these thoughts consume themselves. What’s behind them?
He tries to find himself in this cluttered pool of memories, language, and plans.
Often, he creates a mental “I.” This “I” accepts, rejects, or discusses other thoughts created by his mind. He does not trust this “I” much.
It seems so… small.
Like a child.
He still stares at the street, still does not know. Facebook, emails, Facebook.
Now, his mind is silent.
Do you ever find yourself lost inside a supermassive bottomless black hole of thoughts? Do you ever get swamped by waves of repetitive, dark thoughts?
No worries. Just sit with it. Observe it carefully. Like a cat in front of a mouse hole, watch your mind from the outside. You’ll see there is nothing behind it. Nothing too serious.
It’s just memories and thoughts, created in this present moment.
You power as a human being resides in your ability to notice what is going on inside your mind, without being identified with the content.
No matter what you think, it does not matter much. Just a stream of thoughts.
Your self-image does not matter. Your reason does not matter. You are the noticer behind these thoughts, the awareness in this very moment.
Like a commentator, you are not part of this game. You can identify with the game, if you want. But it’s never who you are. You are always the observer.
So, don’t jump on your thoughts like a train hopper and have them carry you away. Rather, report them to someone you trust.
Much love from Lima