A mould

by Alexandra Pechabaden September. 17, 2017 915 views
Any old  crap photo, as usual

Any old crap photo, as usual

A mould, of what we create for ourselves, a mould of what, who we think we are, a mould that keeps us separate from everyone else. A mould of loneliness.

A mould of unworthiness, a mould of self-loving-NOT. Betraying the self, because we think we are the mould. Seeing all the cuts on the moulds, looking at them with the microscope, and thinking "My body is deteriorating". Or rather, my mould is falling apart, from all the rubbish it is made of.

Then, depression comes in. Letting us know gently that yes, the mould is decomposing and if we hold onto it, we will end up in pieces on the ground, not realising that inside the mould, was the real thing. In this case, not such a shit photo after all, but quite adequate, a chocolate rabbit would be there. I mean, perhaps, a soul, and an interface that doesn't get corrupted by our past, or our beliefs, but just lives in the present moment, within peace. That inner rabbit is like all the other moulds contents, it is made of the same fabric, and if given a bit of love and heat, we would all melt together, realising we are just one. Do we? No. Too busy thinking we are the Ego Mould.

My mould is creaky at the moment, creating havoc, and this mould is all I think I am. I am what I made myself believe I was. I am my past, I am my disease, I am my shame, I am my fears, I am my inadequacies; I certainly am nothing to do with people around me, close ones, nor friends; for they should not want of me because all I am was this mould, which is, without being too self-denigrating, pretty grotesque.

The mould is cracking, which also leads to tiredness; as I observe it, a hundred fears of decay and mourning and loss all come rushing like the Tsunami that may have been on its way. Most of the time, tiredness and a numb depressive feeling hides away anything happening deeper. Fear of not seeing the body heal, the breath getting shallower with time, cutting away the Life wanting to come in.

It is, it is called Hypochondria. Fear of being alone, without anyone to help, or anyone we can turn to, ever; though some people can be paid to be turned to, like therapists; they make office of friends, for some of us in the west; they become family, because they know so much about us (and probably hope we would bugger off) .

Sometimes we grow up self-sufficient, and egotistically proud of not owing anybody anything, so we can't ever ask for help. We couldn't give others our time, because we are ever so busy and have to earn a living; so why would they ever give us THEIR time? Totally. Hence why I don't speak to people, but drown my inabilities in places like this, where a (vaguely more reasonnable) person comes out and expresses its voes. without any self-pity.

I am no victim, just an observer. I wish I could access the Soul, the Life spark that brought me onto this planet; move on from the mould and who I think I have to remain as I have grown up that way and can't change; Life would know better what to do with the body this consciousness also inhabits (hopefully, there is someone else in there than just this rotten ego, apart from the soul, something that would work with the soul more harmoniously than the Ego refuses to do) .
Life would lead me and us into becoming liquid again, realising who we are, and there is no fear to be had in all of us being a huge melted pot of chocolate.
This image makes it acceptable to me. I am chocolate, or whatever holds those moulds, after all. I need not fear losing my identity. I have not one, I am part of you and you are part of me, like we are all part of each other.

Breaking the mould...would be such a dream come true.

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