Dream from I’d say 4 days ago. (today: 19th Feb 2013, a tuesday morning, reading week).
A woman was following an intensive weight loss program. I was following her progress, as her pictures were lapsing in successive chronology. She was a very humongous blond woman, who was très lively, who exuded happiness, and seemed ready to wage peaceful war against her burls. Anyways, as the pictures flew by, she lost weight (although it was barely noticeable given her colossal size). One could notice the weight loss due to the tummy tuck scars she bore… yeesh. that sounds so gruesome. Anyhow, she kept her big wild smile throughout the pictures, happier and happier as the weight blew off, until we got to the end result… Which was horrendously disgusting. She looked like an amorphous flappy sac of skin, happy as a fat-dull girl’s first time on low doses of E, now crippled because of the enormous strain her bones had endured under all those years of massive obesity… Sadly, she was as happy, if not happier than before – proud of herself for having lost her gelatinous outer layers, and seemingly unawares of the porous elastic flab and crippled bones that now remained. The Illusion of Happiness. The journey was definitely not the destination for this girl. The destination was the journey -and that, at any cost-, and surely, divergences or life-reassessments were not of the order. A sad story of desiring a designed outcome, and ploughing through life in order to reach it – blinded and indifferent as to how the desired outcome turns out, no matter how shitty it actually turns out to be… The outcome reduced in equivalence to the value of the pent-up desire to find it. Its like Wanting love so much and Looking for it, without ever pausing to ponder what love is, and Why it is you desire it so. In the end, you’ll be old, and you’ll have that drab and dully pervading typical midlife crisis, because you’ve been shooting targets all your life but you never stopped to wonder why you’re shooting, and why those targets… And sadly you only started self-reflection at the age of 50, and its always a bigger blow when it comes at a later age… because you might realize that you never really spent any time trying to figure out who you are, all in the midst of realizing that the only person living your life is yourself, and so you might get into some existential reads and in the grim shelves of the last-standing library you’ll come across the buddhist parable of the chariot, in which you will learn to understand life as a chariot ride, and if life is a chariot ride, you’ll wonder, “then who is it thats driving my chariot…?”
and you’ll fall into drab quiescence cause you’ve been that sheep they keep making sorry metaphors about… then might you be reminded of Jesus and Matthew… “if the blind man leads a blind man, both will fall into a pit”… and you will find renewed reverence for truths you had yet shunned; they had taught you irreligion, and you had followed the blind mass… and so perhaps you had by now realized that you are the charioteer, but it is one thing to take the reins… it is another to remove the veils from your eyes, so that you may see where you go, and from whence you have come. And then, you might fall into wonder… curiosity will escape your self-concerned worries, and no longer will you be solely concerned about your relation to the world, but about the world at large, and no longer will you feel depleted and lacking, or weighted down and burdened, for to wonder about the birds humbles a man into some sort of sweet extacy.
Times change, but the song remains the same… I guess that applies ey.