We know not what we are made of. I don't...I know. Our claims are our whims. Or, at best, our wishes. There is a satisfaction in thinking of oneself in particular ways. May be, we aren't that. Who knows?
We are not that which we talk. Talk is talk. Its simply a version. May be actions help. But, they carry their own intent- of being seen in certain ways, of making certain impressions, of protraying oneself in a certain genre? Where do we actually belong? When are we out of the play? Off the stage? Un-acting?
Thoughts might actually constitute some kind of inner voice. Things we say to ourselves perhaps are a better reflection of that within us? May be we tell ourselves "act nice", "wear that one...", "he'll like it..", "she''ll approve...", "oh...all this lecture", "they arnt worth it...", "i need to get away...", "one more glance and she'll be in.."?? ;)
May be we act out our entire lives. Say things people want to hear. Do things they would appreciate. Make impressions round-the-clock.
And so we change. For good. For bad. In somebody's good books. Out of somebody's wish-list.
Who do we think we finally are? That which we were trying to be all our life? Or a bad version of our "original" selves. Will happiness be closer then, or Illusion be our new reality? Is that called metamorphosis or self-deceit?
Why do we need to think before talking? Dress-up with an eye on others' taste? Order food and bother about plates and tongues? Why do we need to bring any one around? Live up to any one's image? Or, may be create and live our own? Why do we need to be bohemian, chic, elegant, intellectual, sophisticated, cute, sharp, humoruous, witty,brainy, melancholic, dreamy? Anything?
Being is not enough. Life has its own traps. Living is perhaps that...an entrapment. A desperate attempt to get into Life and then get out of it.
In the interim...All the world's a stage...
We are not that which we talk. Talk is talk. Its simply a version. May be actions help. But, they carry their own intent- of being seen in certain ways, of making certain impressions, of protraying oneself in a certain genre? Where do we actually belong? When are we out of the play? Off the stage? Un-acting?
Thoughts might actually constitute some kind of inner voice. Things we say to ourselves perhaps are a better reflection of that within us? May be we tell ourselves "act nice", "wear that one...", "he'll like it..", "she''ll approve...", "oh...all this lecture", "they arnt worth it...", "i need to get away...", "one more glance and she'll be in.."?? ;)
May be we act out our entire lives. Say things people want to hear. Do things they would appreciate. Make impressions round-the-clock.
And so we change. For good. For bad. In somebody's good books. Out of somebody's wish-list.
Who do we think we finally are? That which we were trying to be all our life? Or a bad version of our "original" selves. Will happiness be closer then, or Illusion be our new reality? Is that called metamorphosis or self-deceit?
Why do we need to think before talking? Dress-up with an eye on others' taste? Order food and bother about plates and tongues? Why do we need to bring any one around? Live up to any one's image? Or, may be create and live our own? Why do we need to be bohemian, chic, elegant, intellectual, sophisticated, cute, sharp, humoruous, witty,brainy, melancholic, dreamy? Anything?
Being is not enough. Life has its own traps. Living is perhaps that...an entrapment. A desperate attempt to get into Life and then get out of it.
In the interim...All the world's a stage...
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