Being Me…probably the confusion of identifying oneself is one of the oldest and most difficult challenges a person faces. What he projects himself as versus what he really wants to be, is a timeless problem. Being me is the element of time. Me.
The world stands tall on its feet its glory, its accomplishments of being grandeur.
We, as human beings, are so insignificantly trivial and infinitesimal that to count us worthy of anything would be completely a waste for the universe… yet we are so egoistic and so full of ourselves that we want everyone to see us, try to know us, and acknowledge our empty greatness.
We do that show-off during parties and events and social gatherings of how our other side is, sometimes a complete opposite of the image during the day.
I received a couple of videos the other day of a few friends who were out partying at the marriage anniversary of a friend.
The video had people dancing in all odd shapes and forms, with a few falling all over others. They were in high spirit for sure. Somehow, I was not comfortable with this style of falling all over others with the monkey dance.
I deleted the videos and moved to the sane world of messages of intelligence and substance.
In that moment, the feeling of thinking big and smart caught hold of me… Being me.
Yet an absence of purpose made me realise that being me was tough with the layers of me-coat pulled on year after year for who I wanted the world to see me as.
I am the tough guy…
That person whom you really don’t want to joke around with, or who will not smile or laugh.
I am carrying with me those experiences of ages, which have my shoulders heavy with the burden I carry… Being Me.
The me is buried deep down under the impenetrable layers of the me-layers, taking away that freedom and the child of who I once was…
A free spirit who would do head-banging on a rock song in front of the huge speaker.
But now I am a professional with very little of the video I had seen or childish behaviour.
Suddenly, a crying sound brought me back to a family event, and my sister handed me the year-old kid now screaming right in my hands.
Instinct took over and, to my own surprise, I was trying all things sounds and faces for the kid to stop crying.
Don’t know why it’s so important being me…
Actually, it’s not worth it — when you miss out on a part of something.
Or do I…
Being Me.
REFLECTIONS 