This is the second installment of the "7 Deadly Sins" series of posts. The first post was about sloth, or laziness, and how it truly does not exist. (See link below to read it.) Today will be about envy.
*****
Envy is a difficult emotion for me. I first started experiencing it when I was in college, studying viola performance. I had a competitive spirit, which made me always want to be "the best." During my freshman year, I felt very confident in my music abilities because I sat at the front of the orchestra. But as time went on, I saw my colleagues flourish and thrive in their musical development. They practiced, they improved, and they started "winning" better seats in orchestra than I did. They learned repertoire faster than I did.
Of course, I was not a shabby musician myself. I certainly belonged at this elite conservatory. But practicing was always difficult. Whereas many of my peers practiced three or more hours a day, I could only clock in at ninety minutes. Practicing was always painful for me. I would stalk the hallways, looking for an available room. Each room was very small, and had no windows. I would take my viola out of its case, place my music on the stand, and commence.
Then things would turn dark. As I played, I would become overwhelmed with an incredible sense of sadness. The more I played, the sadder I became. There is no rational explanation for why I felt this way. The music was a gateway for sadness to attack me. After about an hour, my face would be drenched in tears. Sometimes I played past the tears, they'd drip onto the viola. But most of the time, I would give up. Again and again. I really envied my classmates. I envied how they could practice. How they could "win" the favor of their private teachers. They were able to follow their teachers' instructions and perfect their pieces. But me? I couldn't practice enough, so I was rarely prepared for lessons. I felt lazy and stupid.
I started to become bitter. I hated my musician peers. How they were friends with each other, how they socialized at parties. I never knew where the parties were. On the rare occasions that I went (less than ten times in five years), I felt an empty hole in my gut that no amount of chatting could fill. I felt no connection to anyone, because no one experienced the "musical pain" that I did. I rarely went to recitals either. Watching musicians onstage was as painful as practicing. I would immediately envy their ability to play, and I would leave feeling spiteful and bitter.
I developed schizophrenia during the first year of my Masters degree. This caused me to experience voices while practicing. Sometimes they were inspiring, other times they were cruel. These messages from the "spirit world" told me "divine wisdom" about music's "truths." It made sense to no one except me, which wasn't entirely bad at the time. It made me feel special and valuable. Practicing immersed me in a fantasy world of magic, karma and energy. But eventually I cracked, and was hospitalized. I fell hard, and I was forced to leave college mid-degree.
Even now, I struggle with practicing. When I play, I feel like a failure. I feel embarrassed. I feel like I can never live up to playing as well as my former colleagues at conservatory. I see them on Facebook, pursuing doctorates, playing in European orchestras, posing for group photos behind tables of cheese and wine. I can never achieve what they have. I scrape away at my stringed box, trying to hear the answers, trying to hear clues on how I can end up in Europe. But my viola doesn't tell me anything useful. The harder I try to hear the answers, the louder my voices get.
I have replaced my feelings of envy with resignation. In other words, I have "given up." My feelings of envy were the result of trying to reach an unattainable goal. By giving up the dream, I have relieved myself of this pressure. Very often, we are told to follow our dreams. But sometimes, the process of realizing our dreams puts us in a competitive position. A position where we see others vying for our same dream. This puts us in a state of competition. And with competition comes envy.
Bearing this in mind, we realize that envy is nothing to be ashamed of. Rather, it is a normal human condition. Envy enables us to survive. Envy allows us to remain motivated. Envy allows us to process what is around us, and apply it to our own situations. Perhaps I am too abstract. In my experience, I feel attacked by envy. I don't want to feel envious of my peers. But I see what they have, the beauty and joy they feel as musicians. I don't feel this joy, and yet I realize that I am just as deserving as they are to feel it. Yet I don't. Is envy in this situation unjustified?
Is it?
Related Articles:
Sloth: "No Such Thing As Laziness"
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Friday, October 24, 2014
An Explanation for my Absence...
Dear Readers,
I have not posted in the past few days. I am taking this time to reflect on the goals and purpose of this blog, and am also in the process of receiving constructive feedback from friends. I hope to be back to posting again by the end of this upcoming weekend.
Thanks!
~Neesa
I have not posted in the past few days. I am taking this time to reflect on the goals and purpose of this blog, and am also in the process of receiving constructive feedback from friends. I hope to be back to posting again by the end of this upcoming weekend.
Thanks!
~Neesa
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
A Lesson Learned From Evangelism
Lately, I have become very pleased with the progress of my blog. I am updating daily, and am managing to keep topics varied and creative. I have a desire to share this blog with everyone of course. But for now, I am restricting the "sharing" to a small circle of friends and acquaintances. Of course, if you find yourself here... please stay! :)
Incidentally, I have these little mini business cards that I had printed about six years ago. They're very pretty. So I wrote my URL on the back, and have passed out a few. Not to strangers, mind you. Acquaintances that I have known for a good number of months. Maybe five or so. Part of me felt nervous, but my desire to share my work overcame this feeling.
This reminds me of three years ago. At the time, I had joined an Independent Fundamental Baptist church in Queens. I was only a member of the church for about six months, but during my time there I was heavily involved. I attended both Sunday services, a weekly prayer meeting and a couple of bible education courses. I also taught violin lessons to a few children and became involved in evangelism efforts. Once a week, we would plant ourselves on a busy patch of sidewalk armed with gospel tracts in a few languages. As people walked by, we would hold our tracts out with a warm smile on our faces, optimistic of God's providence. We were 100% confident in His powerful gospel, that it would work in the hearts of those who passed by. I look back now, with my atheist perspective, and see this effort as somewhat tragic and mortifying. Warmhearted people passionately sharing information vital to their lives, all communicated in a little pamphlet. Strangers walking by, some with sneers, others feigning ignor-ance (the act of ignoring), and still others reaching out a receiving hand. A glance inside a nearby garbage can would always reveal a few tracts, clearly unread. These sights must have terribly pained the hearts of my brethren, my brothers and sisters in Christ. You might think that I disdain these people for their conservative views. There is plenty of that going around. But really, I appreciate that I got to know these people. They were kind, and received me with open arms. I know that I pained them greatly with my leaving.
This experience of passing out tracts is somewhat similar to what I am doing now with my blog. I have information that I want to share. I want people to read this blog. I have these little cute cards that I want to hand out. But I'm choosing not to share the URL with everyone I see on the street. Just a few people at a time. Over the years, I have learned that patience is the greatest of virtues. Any truly rewarding result is usually the fruit of much preparatory work. Susan Boyle may have been an overnight sensation with her television appearance, but I am certain that it took her many years to get to the point where she could sing so well.
I also do not want to subject myself to ridicule at this time. Maybe later. When I'm braver.
Incidentally, I have these little mini business cards that I had printed about six years ago. They're very pretty. So I wrote my URL on the back, and have passed out a few. Not to strangers, mind you. Acquaintances that I have known for a good number of months. Maybe five or so. Part of me felt nervous, but my desire to share my work overcame this feeling.
This reminds me of three years ago. At the time, I had joined an Independent Fundamental Baptist church in Queens. I was only a member of the church for about six months, but during my time there I was heavily involved. I attended both Sunday services, a weekly prayer meeting and a couple of bible education courses. I also taught violin lessons to a few children and became involved in evangelism efforts. Once a week, we would plant ourselves on a busy patch of sidewalk armed with gospel tracts in a few languages. As people walked by, we would hold our tracts out with a warm smile on our faces, optimistic of God's providence. We were 100% confident in His powerful gospel, that it would work in the hearts of those who passed by. I look back now, with my atheist perspective, and see this effort as somewhat tragic and mortifying. Warmhearted people passionately sharing information vital to their lives, all communicated in a little pamphlet. Strangers walking by, some with sneers, others feigning ignor-ance (the act of ignoring), and still others reaching out a receiving hand. A glance inside a nearby garbage can would always reveal a few tracts, clearly unread. These sights must have terribly pained the hearts of my brethren, my brothers and sisters in Christ. You might think that I disdain these people for their conservative views. There is plenty of that going around. But really, I appreciate that I got to know these people. They were kind, and received me with open arms. I know that I pained them greatly with my leaving.
This experience of passing out tracts is somewhat similar to what I am doing now with my blog. I have information that I want to share. I want people to read this blog. I have these little cute cards that I want to hand out. But I'm choosing not to share the URL with everyone I see on the street. Just a few people at a time. Over the years, I have learned that patience is the greatest of virtues. Any truly rewarding result is usually the fruit of much preparatory work. Susan Boyle may have been an overnight sensation with her television appearance, but I am certain that it took her many years to get to the point where she could sing so well.
I also do not want to subject myself to ridicule at this time. Maybe later. When I'm braver.
Monday, October 20, 2014
A Personal Turn...
Thus far, I have written about topics in general, without revealing anything too substantial. True, I have divulged some experiences from my past. But I consider these events to be mostly resolved. I have not yet spoken about an issue that perturbs me currently. Doing such is personal. It makes my reputation vulnerable. What will people think? Should I say anything at all, or remain mum? We live in a society where we are free to not disclose. But where is the freedom in that? Let's say that I am a lesbian, and I am free to stay in the closet. That is no freedom. That's like being free to stay in jail.
Right now, I am reclining on a comfortable leather couch, and you are sitting in a swivel chair behind a desk. You have your fingertips on either hand touched together, and you ask me, "Tell me about your mother." And then you're all ears.
What do I say? Do you really have concern about my mother? The relationship I have with her?
I am hocking Freud with my piecemeal knowledge of the subject. I will go another route.
You, all ears. But are you? Do you hear me with your full, undivided attention? Or are you thinking about other things? Your personal life. Like feeding your cat. Or walking your dog that you've cleverly named "Dementia." Cute thing. Or maybe you are thinking about how your daughter has dyed her hair platinum, and now all the boys like her. Maybe... my talking about my friends (me, the patient), makes you lonely (the therapist). Think about it. It is entirely possible that a patient has a more fulfilling social life than his/her therapist. Being a therapist does not mean you are the Master of life, worthy of having devoutly religious patients bowing at your feet in utter gratitude for your advice, nuggets of gold they are. Are you so valuable?
Let us be the master of our own lives. Let therapy be a simple... sharing of notes. Collaborative. Peer to peer. And if a therapist is not a peer... then simple empathy will do. It is not a miracle. It is simply every day living. We need human connection to live life fully.
Right now, I am reclining on a comfortable leather couch, and you are sitting in a swivel chair behind a desk. You have your fingertips on either hand touched together, and you ask me, "Tell me about your mother." And then you're all ears.
What do I say? Do you really have concern about my mother? The relationship I have with her?
I am hocking Freud with my piecemeal knowledge of the subject. I will go another route.
You, all ears. But are you? Do you hear me with your full, undivided attention? Or are you thinking about other things? Your personal life. Like feeding your cat. Or walking your dog that you've cleverly named "Dementia." Cute thing. Or maybe you are thinking about how your daughter has dyed her hair platinum, and now all the boys like her. Maybe... my talking about my friends (me, the patient), makes you lonely (the therapist). Think about it. It is entirely possible that a patient has a more fulfilling social life than his/her therapist. Being a therapist does not mean you are the Master of life, worthy of having devoutly religious patients bowing at your feet in utter gratitude for your advice, nuggets of gold they are. Are you so valuable?
Let us be the master of our own lives. Let therapy be a simple... sharing of notes. Collaborative. Peer to peer. And if a therapist is not a peer... then simple empathy will do. It is not a miracle. It is simply every day living. We need human connection to live life fully.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
"7 Deadly Sins" series: No Such Thing As Laziness (Sloth) 1/7
I will be writing a group of seven posts, which will be part of a "7 Deadly Sins" series. Today is the first installment: Sloth.
*****
I had a very productive day. I cooked four recipes for the week, and penned a bit of a song. I washed all my dishes and cleaned the stove. I took out the trash. I have been perfectly responsible.
It wasn't always this way. For many years, getting me to wash the dishes was like pulling teeth. And cooking? Forget about it. I would sit in front of my computer for hours on end, rather aimlessly. I'd only write a song about once a month. I always felt strained when my mother would ask me to help around the house.
As I was doing my tasks today, I realized that I have recovered so much from my mental illness. Who was I two years ago? Who was I, for all those years before then? Why did I have such a limited capacity for, dare I say, responsibility? For years, I believed I was lazy and stupid. I beat myself up for not doing "enough." But now, after the medicine Clozapine and immense utilization of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) techniques, I can putter around the house without batting an eye. I actually find joy in washing dishes and cleaning and cooking. It is a relaxing activity that counters professional work during the week.
Having been on both sides, I now believe that no one is lazy. "Laziness" is a condition that occurs when someone is too mentally tired to accomplish a task. No one should be judged for being mentally tired. Instead, encouragement and support should be offered. Or at the very least, empathy and compassion.
Related Articles:
"Envy:" Envy Attacks Us
*****
I had a very productive day. I cooked four recipes for the week, and penned a bit of a song. I washed all my dishes and cleaned the stove. I took out the trash. I have been perfectly responsible.
It wasn't always this way. For many years, getting me to wash the dishes was like pulling teeth. And cooking? Forget about it. I would sit in front of my computer for hours on end, rather aimlessly. I'd only write a song about once a month. I always felt strained when my mother would ask me to help around the house.
As I was doing my tasks today, I realized that I have recovered so much from my mental illness. Who was I two years ago? Who was I, for all those years before then? Why did I have such a limited capacity for, dare I say, responsibility? For years, I believed I was lazy and stupid. I beat myself up for not doing "enough." But now, after the medicine Clozapine and immense utilization of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) techniques, I can putter around the house without batting an eye. I actually find joy in washing dishes and cleaning and cooking. It is a relaxing activity that counters professional work during the week.
Having been on both sides, I now believe that no one is lazy. "Laziness" is a condition that occurs when someone is too mentally tired to accomplish a task. No one should be judged for being mentally tired. Instead, encouragement and support should be offered. Or at the very least, empathy and compassion.
Related Articles:
"Envy:" Envy Attacks Us
Friday, October 17, 2014
The Unknown Future
Many people walk the path of sobriety. Some are alcoholics, members of AA. Or gamblers, members of GA. Overeaters, OA. Drug addicts, NA. All these "anonymous" 12-step groups. Networks of former addicts, helping other addicts overcome their addictions. A buddy system. A system of caring, compassion and support. The serenity prayer: God give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Serenity now.
I consider myself a former addict as well. But my addiction does not have a support group. There is no network for me to consult for advice or assistance. I have no sponsor. Even the serenity prayer is rendered useless, from a certain perspective.
What the hell addiction is this?
...
RELIGION
...
SPIRITUALITY
...
THE ESOTERIC
...
For many years, I felt that my mental illness was due to a spiritual deficiency. I was depressed because I had bad karma, and was being punished for it. I had delusions because there were spirits from past lives haunting me. The continual relapses that prevented me from holding a job... it was all some spiritual trial that served to punish me. And I deserved that punishment, because I knew deep down that I was fundamentally evil. You can imagine that this notion is absolutely frightening. Not only does societal stigma deem me "demonic" or "inferior" due to my illness, but the voices in my head said the same as well. Is it possible for our voices to stigmatize us? Is this self-stigma, or stigma inflicted by the spirit world?
This question is irrelevant.
For many years, I felt cursed. Why me? Why do I keep losing jobs? Why don't I have a boyfriend? Why am I fat? Why am I sad all the time? Why do I keep getting hospitalized? Why do I take meds? Why don't I have friends? Why can't I smile? It was unfair. Others didn't seem to have these problems. They had all these things I didn't have. And I wanted it more than they did. I just knew it.
I experimented with different spiritual practices and perspectives. I first started by meditating with a group that had a guru in India. When I started, I was "only" clinically depressed. After a year and a half, I had developed voices, winning the "schizoaffective disorder badge." My doctors told me to stop meditating, which was good advice. But I still felt cursed. I consulted psychics, palm readers, tarot card readers, astrologers... I needed this illness out of me. I was haunted. Stifled. This shit was not me. It was outside of me. I spent thousands of dollars worth of credit money to pay these people and follow my spiritual impulses. A trip to India. A bag of glass aquarium stones that cost over a thousand dollars. A trip to Denmark. My future was unknown, and I needed comfort. I needed to know that it would be "ok." Psychics... they told me my spiritual deficiencies. My future. They shed light on my past. They all contradicted each other, but no matter. Each psychic was better than the last one.
After becoming thoroughly confused with all this New Age mumbo jumbo, I became saved by Jesus. Evangelical Christians say that, upon salvation, the demons leave a person. Yes! I was cured. Church. Bible study. Skirts. Pure love from the congregation. I say this in earnest. The people I prayed with were some of the kindest and most genuine people I have ever met. I still feel guilty for abandoning them, in the sense that my leaving made them sad.
But I had to. The "voices" told me I had to. Whatever the voices told me to do, I had to do it. With every spiritual experience I had, the voices in my head had more and more "information" to twist around. Pure mental kryptonite, tailor-made for me, Neesa Sunar. I returned to tarot cards. I'd do spread after spread, asking questions ranging from my karmic future, to why I found Glenn Beck sexy. And crystals. Each stone told me something different. But, unlike the psychics, nothing was contradictory. Every inanimate object that spoke to me seemed to follow this coherent logic, albeit twisted. That was what made it all so believable.
My need for spiritual validation ended with one little miracle: Clozapine. After titrating on it during a two-month hospitalization, the voices became less commanding. For the first time, I became stronger than them. And so, they no longer had a mystical, spiritual quality. Biology triumphed over spirituality. Over religion. Over magic. Over prayers. Or maybe not. Perhaps my prayers were answered. Or a single prayer: Dear Lord, please fix me so that I don't ever need to pray again.
So my addiction... what would you call it? The need for a spiritual "fix." To indulge in a religious practice in order to understand the voices. To consult a psychic to reassure me that the man I currently have a crush on really likes me back. To pay a healer to say prayers for me over crystals to ensure that I am no longer cursed. Never again will I pay money for all this. Never again will I put my faith in mere people. Or mere deities. And although I have some experiences that point to the fact that there is an unknown force, I remain an atheist. I remain a realist. Just because something has not been scientifically validated, it does not mean that it does not exist.
Sometimes, I buckle. I have a pendulum, a pointy stone attached to a small chain. Even now, I ask it questions, and it swings back and forth. Depending on the direction it swings, it tells me "yes" or "no." I dabble, thinking it is no biggie. Will I get that job? Will I always live in New York? The spiritual junkie in me has to know. The suspense kills me. But really, this pendulum is as toxic as a Ouija board. In the sense that, perhaps, it is my own imagination that drives me over the edge. Is it worth it? Do I have to know my future?
NO. Why should I know the future? Would I pick up a book, start it just enough to know the main character and his/her premise, only to flip to the last chapter and see what happens in the end? Is the suspense so bad that I need to read the end before the middle? Maybe. In our lives, we read many books, but we only live one book. Don't read the end. Doing so makes the middle so uninteresting. We don't need to know "what if?" or "why?" or "how come?" Just live. Break the addiction of needing to know the future. Break the addiction of ANXIETY. How? I can't tell you. For you, it might be a pill. A mantra. A friend. A job. Even religion could work for you, even though it doesn't work for me. And don't lose heart if you make mistakes in trying to find your own personal "cure." I did it. I'm sober... (mostly). Every time I walk by a store-front psychic, I turn the other way. I feel the pull, but I just keep walking. I fight this addiction every day. So can you.
I consider myself a former addict as well. But my addiction does not have a support group. There is no network for me to consult for advice or assistance. I have no sponsor. Even the serenity prayer is rendered useless, from a certain perspective.
What the hell addiction is this?
...
RELIGION
...
SPIRITUALITY
...
THE ESOTERIC
...
For many years, I felt that my mental illness was due to a spiritual deficiency. I was depressed because I had bad karma, and was being punished for it. I had delusions because there were spirits from past lives haunting me. The continual relapses that prevented me from holding a job... it was all some spiritual trial that served to punish me. And I deserved that punishment, because I knew deep down that I was fundamentally evil. You can imagine that this notion is absolutely frightening. Not only does societal stigma deem me "demonic" or "inferior" due to my illness, but the voices in my head said the same as well. Is it possible for our voices to stigmatize us? Is this self-stigma, or stigma inflicted by the spirit world?
This question is irrelevant.
For many years, I felt cursed. Why me? Why do I keep losing jobs? Why don't I have a boyfriend? Why am I fat? Why am I sad all the time? Why do I keep getting hospitalized? Why do I take meds? Why don't I have friends? Why can't I smile? It was unfair. Others didn't seem to have these problems. They had all these things I didn't have. And I wanted it more than they did. I just knew it.
I experimented with different spiritual practices and perspectives. I first started by meditating with a group that had a guru in India. When I started, I was "only" clinically depressed. After a year and a half, I had developed voices, winning the "schizoaffective disorder badge." My doctors told me to stop meditating, which was good advice. But I still felt cursed. I consulted psychics, palm readers, tarot card readers, astrologers... I needed this illness out of me. I was haunted. Stifled. This shit was not me. It was outside of me. I spent thousands of dollars worth of credit money to pay these people and follow my spiritual impulses. A trip to India. A bag of glass aquarium stones that cost over a thousand dollars. A trip to Denmark. My future was unknown, and I needed comfort. I needed to know that it would be "ok." Psychics... they told me my spiritual deficiencies. My future. They shed light on my past. They all contradicted each other, but no matter. Each psychic was better than the last one.
After becoming thoroughly confused with all this New Age mumbo jumbo, I became saved by Jesus. Evangelical Christians say that, upon salvation, the demons leave a person. Yes! I was cured. Church. Bible study. Skirts. Pure love from the congregation. I say this in earnest. The people I prayed with were some of the kindest and most genuine people I have ever met. I still feel guilty for abandoning them, in the sense that my leaving made them sad.
But I had to. The "voices" told me I had to. Whatever the voices told me to do, I had to do it. With every spiritual experience I had, the voices in my head had more and more "information" to twist around. Pure mental kryptonite, tailor-made for me, Neesa Sunar. I returned to tarot cards. I'd do spread after spread, asking questions ranging from my karmic future, to why I found Glenn Beck sexy. And crystals. Each stone told me something different. But, unlike the psychics, nothing was contradictory. Every inanimate object that spoke to me seemed to follow this coherent logic, albeit twisted. That was what made it all so believable.
My need for spiritual validation ended with one little miracle: Clozapine. After titrating on it during a two-month hospitalization, the voices became less commanding. For the first time, I became stronger than them. And so, they no longer had a mystical, spiritual quality. Biology triumphed over spirituality. Over religion. Over magic. Over prayers. Or maybe not. Perhaps my prayers were answered. Or a single prayer: Dear Lord, please fix me so that I don't ever need to pray again.
So my addiction... what would you call it? The need for a spiritual "fix." To indulge in a religious practice in order to understand the voices. To consult a psychic to reassure me that the man I currently have a crush on really likes me back. To pay a healer to say prayers for me over crystals to ensure that I am no longer cursed. Never again will I pay money for all this. Never again will I put my faith in mere people. Or mere deities. And although I have some experiences that point to the fact that there is an unknown force, I remain an atheist. I remain a realist. Just because something has not been scientifically validated, it does not mean that it does not exist.
Sometimes, I buckle. I have a pendulum, a pointy stone attached to a small chain. Even now, I ask it questions, and it swings back and forth. Depending on the direction it swings, it tells me "yes" or "no." I dabble, thinking it is no biggie. Will I get that job? Will I always live in New York? The spiritual junkie in me has to know. The suspense kills me. But really, this pendulum is as toxic as a Ouija board. In the sense that, perhaps, it is my own imagination that drives me over the edge. Is it worth it? Do I have to know my future?
NO. Why should I know the future? Would I pick up a book, start it just enough to know the main character and his/her premise, only to flip to the last chapter and see what happens in the end? Is the suspense so bad that I need to read the end before the middle? Maybe. In our lives, we read many books, but we only live one book. Don't read the end. Doing so makes the middle so uninteresting. We don't need to know "what if?" or "why?" or "how come?" Just live. Break the addiction of needing to know the future. Break the addiction of ANXIETY. How? I can't tell you. For you, it might be a pill. A mantra. A friend. A job. Even religion could work for you, even though it doesn't work for me. And don't lose heart if you make mistakes in trying to find your own personal "cure." I did it. I'm sober... (mostly). Every time I walk by a store-front psychic, I turn the other way. I feel the pull, but I just keep walking. I fight this addiction every day. So can you.
Poem: "Rain"
RAIN
What does it feel like to be rained on?
I’ll tell you.
Rain hurts. Rain burns my skin. Rain scars. Rain burns the scars until they are not scars anymore. Burns them until they’re not anything anymore. Just little gnarled nubs of what was once there. And then the rain burns the little nubs away. And then there’s supposed to be nothing left. I’m supposed to be gone.
But I’m still here. I have no body, and yet my imagination is still here. My imagination is still standing, with its two feet, on this hill. The grass on this hill is green, I see it. But when I wave my imaginary hand in front of my imaginary eyes to see if I am real, I only see grass. Green grass. Why didn’t the rain burn the grass? Why is the grass still green? Why is the grass still living and thriving, and I am…
Not? Not alive? Not here? Not aware?
No. I am aware. I am aware of this ironically green hell. I am aware of my invisible skeleton that is still alive, even though no one sees it. I don’t even see it. But I feel it. I feel me. And that means I’m real. Even if nobody else knows it.
(c) Neesa Sunar 2014
What does it feel like to be rained on?
I’ll tell you.
Rain hurts. Rain burns my skin. Rain scars. Rain burns the scars until they are not scars anymore. Burns them until they’re not anything anymore. Just little gnarled nubs of what was once there. And then the rain burns the little nubs away. And then there’s supposed to be nothing left. I’m supposed to be gone.
But I’m still here. I have no body, and yet my imagination is still here. My imagination is still standing, with its two feet, on this hill. The grass on this hill is green, I see it. But when I wave my imaginary hand in front of my imaginary eyes to see if I am real, I only see grass. Green grass. Why didn’t the rain burn the grass? Why is the grass still green? Why is the grass still living and thriving, and I am…
Not? Not alive? Not here? Not aware?
No. I am aware. I am aware of this ironically green hell. I am aware of my invisible skeleton that is still alive, even though no one sees it. I don’t even see it. But I feel it. I feel me. And that means I’m real. Even if nobody else knows it.
(c) Neesa Sunar 2014
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