I have many ideas about who you are just as you have many ideas about who I am. These ideas will always be about me, about you, until we have experienced one another.
Commonly I would have found this to be true in the light of rumours, hearsay, conjecture, biases and the sort. I would have committed to my moral code the decisions not to judge you based on these things. I would be an empathetic and caring person who reserves judgement until I have processed only my own observation. Freedom from prejudice and initial observation seemed to be fair enough cause for evaluation, but now I'm not so sure.
Do you know a person once you have met them? Did you know me from the start? Could you predict the words that would flow from me to you on the day we met? How about a few weeks later? How about today? You may have observed my effects but do you know my causes? Worse still, if I may presuppose a human spirit, are you in touch with that which lies between cause and effect? But I spare you the digression, because today I only wish to ponder lazily; how little observation is truly necessary for you to know me. Particularly me, a man who hopes to forever grow, forever change, forever dream, forever aspire; in short a man who never truly wishes to be known. Come to understand my past through that which you remember or have heard but tomorrow I could be someone brand new.
And aren't your tommorows made up of a thousand todays, each one undiscovered until it becomes a yesterday? I wish I could go back in time, back in your time, see the life story that brought you to today. Maybe then I could know you? I don't think I can know your past based solely on what you've told me of it, we all pick and choose which pages of our life story to reveal and which to tear free from its binding. But what still of your pages revealed? Can I know you simply from observing the words shared from or about you? If I sat down in a comfortable sofa with an empty open mind to watch the movie of your life story, would there not be scenes, long and important scenes, filled with a silence more important than any words in the script? Would the camera not pan in on you, sitting there with your head back pressed against against the wall, gazing towards something unseen, eyes filled with rage or perhaps tears, redefining your identity - your beliefs, character and goals - in a silence I will never hear? How often have you gone to this secret place, this place inside you too far for me to travel? How much of you is there, how much of you is here?
Who are you, really, to know me? Without being you, how can I ever truly understand you? You live in a world bent on categorizing me as different than you. I am male, you are not. You are white, I am not. My age, your wealth; your desires, my insecurities. Am I blind to the light of your soul for as long as I view it from my own lens? Or can you see me for who I am, if we callibrate? And how would this happen?
It would take something more than honesty, honesty is an obvious component. Lying obscures both what has been said and what is yet unsaid. But it would take more. To understand your causes you would have to speak to know effect, lest I mistake one for another. To absorb my yesterdays you would have to discard my tomorrows, lest you come to understand me backwards. If I am to be known I have to evaluate each word that I utter to you to make sure I am not guiding you away to understanding the man I aspire to be, rather than the man I am - the sum of men I once were. You need to tell me who you were as a result of the women you were before, not merely as a progression towards the women you hope to become. Such diligence, such shared meditation, such fearlessness is not always easy and not often desired. Facing ourselves is hard enough, but at least we already know what we will think; having someone else truly face us naked, without knowing how they may then perceive us is the true test.
When are we so brave? When do we finally tire of letting people have ideas about us, and rather let them touch us? To whom will we offer this experience? Or is that even our choice? How many people who have touched us were willed into our existence by a formal request?
Do we really choose the life that we lead?
Commonly I would have found this to be true in the light of rumours, hearsay, conjecture, biases and the sort. I would have committed to my moral code the decisions not to judge you based on these things. I would be an empathetic and caring person who reserves judgement until I have processed only my own observation. Freedom from prejudice and initial observation seemed to be fair enough cause for evaluation, but now I'm not so sure.
Do you know a person once you have met them? Did you know me from the start? Could you predict the words that would flow from me to you on the day we met? How about a few weeks later? How about today? You may have observed my effects but do you know my causes? Worse still, if I may presuppose a human spirit, are you in touch with that which lies between cause and effect? But I spare you the digression, because today I only wish to ponder lazily; how little observation is truly necessary for you to know me. Particularly me, a man who hopes to forever grow, forever change, forever dream, forever aspire; in short a man who never truly wishes to be known. Come to understand my past through that which you remember or have heard but tomorrow I could be someone brand new.
And aren't your tommorows made up of a thousand todays, each one undiscovered until it becomes a yesterday? I wish I could go back in time, back in your time, see the life story that brought you to today. Maybe then I could know you? I don't think I can know your past based solely on what you've told me of it, we all pick and choose which pages of our life story to reveal and which to tear free from its binding. But what still of your pages revealed? Can I know you simply from observing the words shared from or about you? If I sat down in a comfortable sofa with an empty open mind to watch the movie of your life story, would there not be scenes, long and important scenes, filled with a silence more important than any words in the script? Would the camera not pan in on you, sitting there with your head back pressed against against the wall, gazing towards something unseen, eyes filled with rage or perhaps tears, redefining your identity - your beliefs, character and goals - in a silence I will never hear? How often have you gone to this secret place, this place inside you too far for me to travel? How much of you is there, how much of you is here?
Who are you, really, to know me? Without being you, how can I ever truly understand you? You live in a world bent on categorizing me as different than you. I am male, you are not. You are white, I am not. My age, your wealth; your desires, my insecurities. Am I blind to the light of your soul for as long as I view it from my own lens? Or can you see me for who I am, if we callibrate? And how would this happen?
It would take something more than honesty, honesty is an obvious component. Lying obscures both what has been said and what is yet unsaid. But it would take more. To understand your causes you would have to speak to know effect, lest I mistake one for another. To absorb my yesterdays you would have to discard my tomorrows, lest you come to understand me backwards. If I am to be known I have to evaluate each word that I utter to you to make sure I am not guiding you away to understanding the man I aspire to be, rather than the man I am - the sum of men I once were. You need to tell me who you were as a result of the women you were before, not merely as a progression towards the women you hope to become. Such diligence, such shared meditation, such fearlessness is not always easy and not often desired. Facing ourselves is hard enough, but at least we already know what we will think; having someone else truly face us naked, without knowing how they may then perceive us is the true test.
When are we so brave? When do we finally tire of letting people have ideas about us, and rather let them touch us? To whom will we offer this experience? Or is that even our choice? How many people who have touched us were willed into our existence by a formal request?
Do we really choose the life that we lead?
No comments:
Post a Comment