Restraint
I often wonder how I am perceived. I believe I wonder this much less than many but I can never be sure. I could just ignore my constant concern with perception. I do believe I operate differently than that though. When I look in the mirror, I decide whether I am comfortable. I suppose I am questioning myself as to whether this decision is about my comfort with how I will be seen or my comfort with how I am. Ideally, according to popular belief, no outward appearance should affect one's inner self or their comfort with this self. Of course, this is too often contrasted by multicultural obsession with style. This transcends material fashion (from shoes to scarfs) to body modification, manipulation and more. We wear make up to cover up what is. We bathe every day to smell fresh and clean. Despite what (chemicals and acids) may be in our soaps and detergents, how ineffective our synthetic sponges may be, how contaminated our waters are -- we feel clean, we appear clean. And despite my criticism of such simple practices that arguably have highly increased health standards and life expectancy, which I'm sure seems much too grassroots for many, I beleive it is excessive. These extremes in modernity are, I beleive, the root to our lack of satisfaction, our high counts of depression, our little self-esteem or respect and most importantly our priorties -- so revolved around materiality and exterior we constantly improve the surface without advancing the interior. Of course, the ladder is much more difficult, intricate although often less EXPENSIVE. I believe, despite how big and beautiful the house, only the inner home is of real worth. I suppose I'm interior decorator more than architect though.
And I hope I'm not misunderstood. Because, of course, I realize the house, the shell, frame, container, permits that inner existence. Without the body, how can their be a soul? I counter this arguments simply by conceiving that despite the display, one's home (pictures, keep sakes, valued furniture, etc) may be in boxes, a shack, a hole, a house, a mansion, or a museum -- they are only of value to whom truly values them and this is an inherent value; not one that (in most cases) is greatened or lessened by their pedestol. And another anology, it is not the pedestol that heightens the man but he who puts himself there.
Oh, status; Oh, quo. Upon which we depend so.
Please, let the people go.
Breathe. Be. Think. See. Learn. Earn.
It's your turn.
The water is my only home
with jungle ceilings and
sponge beds, in between
all of life, springs and falls
from cliffs to beaches
reefs of reaches undecipherable
in our sixteen miles. Oh,
to the promised land,
hand in hand
I will deny this unholy holiday
for work in everyday.
And I hope I'm not misunderstood. Because, of course, I realize the house, the shell, frame, container, permits that inner existence. Without the body, how can their be a soul? I counter this arguments simply by conceiving that despite the display, one's home (pictures, keep sakes, valued furniture, etc) may be in boxes, a shack, a hole, a house, a mansion, or a museum -- they are only of value to whom truly values them and this is an inherent value; not one that (in most cases) is greatened or lessened by their pedestol. And another anology, it is not the pedestol that heightens the man but he who puts himself there.
Oh, status; Oh, quo. Upon which we depend so.
Please, let the people go.
Breathe. Be. Think. See. Learn. Earn.
It's your turn.
The water is my only home
with jungle ceilings and
sponge beds, in between
all of life, springs and falls
from cliffs to beaches
reefs of reaches undecipherable
in our sixteen miles. Oh,
to the promised land,
hand in hand
I will deny this unholy holiday
for work in everyday.