The Paradox of the Gaze
I always revel in the gaze.
The famished EGO makes that gaze its prey, ostracizing the true self.
Intoxicated by the spotlight. Blindly buried within a husk of flesh that is nothing but a shell.
Perhaps.
Perhaps I do not wish to look at myself.
A self-image of polar extremes.
Busy slaughtering the useless self,
While busy extolling the noble one.
Like Jekyll and Hyde.
And so, the mind’s eye is always fixed elsewhere.
To escape the nausea of dirty desires—the desire to kill, the desire to be praised.
But those gazes... sweet as they are, even the fear they bring
Is still a paradox.
I enjoy it, yet.
It.
Sometimes.
Hurts too much.
Inside me, there is too much of me.
No.
Inside me, "I" do not exist;
"We" exist.
Whether these plural "Me's" are truly myself, or just goddamned things... I do not know.
I only pray.
For independence from them.
Sometimes, I want to spit it out like this.
Not a beautiful Poem.
But a Slaughter dedicated to the self I wish to execute.
The Word is still difficult.
And I still doubt whether I qualify for His love.
Perhaps, even at that final moment when life slips away,
The color of my soul will tremble violently in fear...
These are but the meager expressions of a microscopic existence that dreads salvation.
I feel a sliver of freedom.
This is a scratch on the soul, small and beyond my head and emotions.
More. More. More.
It must be so.
To survive.
Death is fearful yet sweet.
Life is wretched yet dear.
This excruciating contradiction. Contradiction. Contradiction. Contradictions.
Fuck.
Who are you?
Where are you now?
For what?
Towards where?
The questionnaire that should have ended long ago is still filled with question marks.
Where am I flowing to?
Sometimes, thoughts of Him come to me.
The object of a hope—that He might love even my own filth.
That terrifying, yet infinitely missed Being.
And so, it hurts.
Someday.
I want to stand tall and say, "Please, love me," without shame.
Someday.
But not now.
Not yet.
Not quite yet.
