That 90s rom-com aptly titled because seven billion people have their own inroad to how true that is.
True. But not timetabled.
Reality is also really, really rad! We just don’t amplify the arcs when they’re upward.
Consider this: inside your happy and your heat, your heart does its thing. But to those on the outside of that (them, non-lead, supporting roles on your billing), it all just looks like blah blah blah blah blah. And when you need to stop because you pulled the muscle that is your talent, the musts and the meetings don’t.
And the harking by those who are still there; that venerable team who haven’t had the vantage that embarrasses how we hang onto sums like they are the light of the sun, your ‘stopping’ will still just look like blah blah blah. Because it should and there isn’t necessarily anything wrong or untoward with that.
It’s called perspective.
The contrast is that there isn’t any, if those who see your big as blah go home to the catatonia of Kardashian-ville – or the likes.
Ah… Reality TV.
An oddity I’m bemused by… or was… And yes, sure, the shift is because of where my soul stands now. I’d never cared much for it – and still don’t really – but I think I finally get what the originator had in mind when she/he wrote the rationale for what they wanted to respect…
I grew up loving and looking forward to lounge-nights because: Knight Rider, MacGuyver, Air Wolf and Magnum PI. Imagination’s inspiration was injected by the heroes and the wins I witnessed when I watched. Ergo, TV’s tales added torque to my tiny-tot truth.
But, while the global gallivanting is very definitely amazing, it is on a philosophical (cynical?) level that I say no thanks, don’t put me down for that.
There is nothing Amazing about the Race we’ve been programmed to rate as something we have to be a Survivor of.
Those start and finish lines are drawn because the system needs us to keep running between them. And the only real hurrying we do is in the horror of regret when we realise we fell for it… albeit too late.
As kids, we allocate so much time to make-believe, and shelve it as soon as we participate in the never-resting current that “society” tells us we must swim with.
What happened to make-believe?
You believed them – as they expected you would – that the beauty of your belief in how and what you make should be slotted into that ‘free-time’ hobby-hole on the roster under a magnet on the fridge door.
Whether your happiest vibrations are sequinned, service or systematic, remember that your purest invitation is to play – and then share that with your world.
There’s no business like Soul business.
We run around thinking we’re Superman Lovers, because pedestals are things painted for us. But believe me when I say that your telephone booth quick-change isn’t something you know you’re doing when you’re inside of doing it.
You are a magnificent making of capacity-to-cope that someone who struck while the iron was hot wrote into a script, and called him Superman.
And it’s as super as it is supposed. That’s life.
My pocket full of kryptonite beats in my chest and runs through my veins.
I know because with it, I am alive.
Torture is alive.
Talent is alive.
Telling the truth of how you experience the difference between the two, to those you talk to – or the mirror – is a service you owe your soul.
Thanks for coming to my telephone booth quick-change. However you did, or what you do with the rest of your day, please take this with you:
You are The Light of the Sun. Don’t shine it where souls don’t salute yours back.
RIP Daddy. I miss you much.
And Mom, thank you for making me the best
Superman cape I flew with when I did!
You. Are. Superman, aren’t you?
© Dylan Balkind