Entry 21 - Fuck if I know what to do. Maybe Dune had it right?

The quality of human nature that applies to socialization is an interesting problem. Everything said or done becomes an instant reflection on me. Thus, I change behavior, reactions, speech in order to blend in better. Chameleon. Constant rejection, fear of failure, fear of reprisal, always trying to limit myself and my potential just in case it pisses someone off. I’m so tired of being less to make someone else feel more. Every goddamn day we teach people to fear, we teach them to be controlled. To be obedient. Consequences are learned and evaluated in some kind of arcane, key indicator quantified scenario that confuses the fuck out of me. That fear sits on you all the time. It removes you from the inner confidence that is central to existence. To worth. The sense that inner divinity and confidence allows true communications. True understanding between people. They say that fear begets evil. I won’t argue with that. But, instead of acting as a motivating force, a force for change or safety, it seems like the modern, psychological manipulation of fear for the social contract is absolutely soul crushing.

In yoga, Patanjali taught that inner quiet can purify the individual into God. That there is a place in every human undisturbed by thought. By this social conditioning. It is a place that is distilled to its most basic essence of purpose and that when you tap into that place, you automatically achieve perfection.

I call bullshit.

In sports, all my strength came from not my ability to run fast, strategize, or be stronger than everyone else. My technique evolved from this gnawing, aching feeling of fear and self-doubt. I was always running from the fear. It was a poison that sat in my heart. It made me great, but broke me at the same time. How can that be? If the greatest gift we can give to ourselves is the ultimate faith and freedom to be ourselves and confident in our worth as human beings, then…is hope dead? When asked what the most important attribute of an officer was, I replied, “compassion.” At the time, I regretted my answer slightly, but now, I wonder if that was the last gasp of my hope for others, not myself. As in, I no longer had compassion for myself, only fear. Fear and doubt. All the time. Fear and pain that eats out the heart of you. I wasn’t offering my own compassion for others, but begging for theirs. For some basis of real growth and real love.

Maybe if I could redo it, re-ask the question, maybe I would ask for strength. It is never enough. My mind roams-reaches for half-formed visions of adventure; of death, they are the same. What right have I to claim a place with any of the officers, heroes that came before me, when I’m such a coward? So weak?