Today's post comes to us from a friend of mine. It is a (tough) love letter. It was written by a friend of mine, N.T. Andrew. -Biko
You
say,
Then
you do,
There
I see the lies.
I am listening to all that you have
to say. Nodding my head up and down to reflect my intent pontification of your
web of reasoning. I’m listening. I keep listening. I think I’ve heard
everything you have to say.
Your message brings about a few
questions in my mind. Starting with, why should I trust you exactly? Why should
I let the monologue you’ve practiced to yourself hold any weight for me? For
all I know, you’ve practiced your own lies in the mirror of self far longer
than the minutes you’ve spent trying to convince me. I can only assume you
believe what you are saying. You do, don’t you? Wait, do you even believe the
lies you tell yourself to sleep at night: lies of your benevolence and the
goodness of only those things which you believe and are associated with? Have
you convinced yourself that there is nothing more than your current reality,
nothing better than your state of being, nothing you actually can do? Do you think
this is the only option: without the shadow of a doubt in your mind? If so,
when did you start believing that? Tell me, when did you start believing in
your own lies?
Are you still reading? If you’ve
read to this point, I can only imagine your feelings. I can can’t remotely feel
your frustration at someone who would dare to question your foundation. I must
be so far removed from your emotions inside my cocoon of self-aggrandization.
Self-aggrandization?
I simply ask questions. Even my
assumptions are questioned enough for you to dispel them. I keep waiting for
you to dispel them but your answers produce a slew of additional questions
which you can’t seem to answer. I wonder if this is getting through or if it is
doing any good? We seem to be from two corners of the exact same room. In this
corner we have the passivist who has accepted all of the lies of someone or
something higher up enough to evangelize. On the other side, we have an
arrogant and naive child who seems to ask a lot of questions.
Let me ask you another question: if
I have not already asked so many. Why should I not be irate at the lies you
choose to accept? You seem to be sustained by the bread of lies fed to you.
Forgive me, I do not wish to dine in your home and share the plate on your
table.
It’s absurd isn’t it: my decline
for an open invitation? Does it not boggle your mind that even seeing I do not
believe the things that you believe? How dare I not take your words at face
value? What a preposterous notion that I would find a reason to push back at
everything you say. Would it not be so much easier for me to not be a
contrarian? Would it not be better for me to stop arguing and to just accept
reality: to relent in silence as I accept your reasoning like my own. It would
be easier would it not. So much easier my love.
Why should I?
Truth be told, I see no clarity in your
truth. I see nothing more than a soul who has shielded themselves from the
weathering of multiplicity and middle grounds. I stare at covered eyes blinded through
the involuntary covering of a hands subconsciously controlled by a mind choosing
to believe in a single lie. I do not believe in you anymore than I believe in
my own benevolence and wisdom.
Is anyone really ever a single
truth? At any point in time, can anyone ever truly just be one character and a
single concept? In this life and the next, can a soul perpetually just be within
a single dimension?
Are you listening? Do you even
understand anything I just said to you? Why are you not listening? Have you read
this essay or has your mind began to build a commentary of everything I briefly
mentioned? Have you actually read all the words or have you just gone ahead and
assumed my intent? Have you been wondering who this might have been directed
at, which institution I was thinking about as my fingers glided across the keyboard
with each stroke? Maybe it wasn’t something. Maybe it was someone. Perhaps it
was myself: the indoctrinated unconscious mind fighting to push back on the
enlightened side. I will let you decide
for yourself why I sat at a Starbucks to type out this love letter. Do not
mistake my intent, I aim to write a love letter. I would not take the time to
write this whole monologue if I did not care about you. I care about you. I
care about you a lot. This is why I am hoping you would listen.
But I’m guessing that you’re still
talking to yourself instead of reading. Why do you choose to keep talking? Why
do you choose to keep acting like you know everything when you truly don’t? Is
it hard to admit the truth of some of my words? Is it hard to feel the
uncomfortable anxiety and the head pounding pondering jumping out of the page?
Why is it hard to feel those things: your fatigue and overwhelming anxiety? Why
is it even harder to openly admit these things? Why won’t you allow me to
believe in the truth of your words by finally showing me the broken pieces and
your unknown? “I don’t know” is a very liberating path to a life of searching.
It hurts so much to watch you
believe the fabrication of your own lies.
I feel as though I’ve said too
much.
I think I should just ask you this
last thing. Actually, I will stop
asking. I want you to ask yourself: What do I want? What do I truly want? Where
do I want to go? Where do I want to be? What do I hope to get from this life
and to receive? What is it that I care about? What would I like? Why am I here?
I mean here here: the context of the current season, institution, career,
partnership, relationship, political climate, and this place?
If you don’t know the answer, maybe
you should keep asking yourself some more questions. Let the words of your own
questioning shake the foundation of your soul. Find a way to make sense of the
earthquakes which leaves you in the destruction of self-reflection and
realization. Choose to accept destruction as rebirth. Believe in the infinite
rising of a soul who is willing to keep questioning it all. Answers are cheap; good questions are the work of GOD, whatever you conceive Him to be (as Max
Ehrmann put it).
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