no more self

no more self

Waking up in the morning and clearing the slate  has been the most real experience I’ve had in awhile. Meditating on nothing more than a white blank canvas while I let any other thoughts fade to ash has been hypnotic. I hate moving and starting the day. The loops of thoughts are waiting there, ready to drag me back down into my anxiety, my self-doubt, and my inadequacies. I’ve grown tired and weak allowing myself to feel unworthy, inexperienced, and naive. I wrap myself in shame and guilt for things I’ve done and things I’ve failed to do. 

I’m tired of this version of myself. This “self” needs to die. I want to capture the imagination that I paint on this white canvas and run with it. I’m tired of allowing myself to believe that I’m not good enough. That the people I encounter on a daily basis also believe I’m not worthy. 

The easiest deceptions in the world to see are the most trigger sensitive. I removed myself from social media because a constant reminder remained that everyone else is extremely content where they are – they know what makes them happy and they know how to move on. I can barely watch TV – another medium projecting a life you don’t have. 

Even now, I ponder my guilt. So am I content to be alone in my apartment, quietly writing music and harmonies for the next several months? What about the life I’m missing? The bumps and bruises I’m supposed to get along the way? For some reason I develop the belief that I’m missing out on all the sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll that everyone waltzes right into. I’m nothing without it because everyone else is in it. Outside looking in again. The noise is otherworldly. It’s hard not to get ushered into what other people perceive as important. 

People tend to be loud, boisterous, critical, and supposedly experienced. All this peacocking makes me feel like an innocent church boy again. Go home kid, the grown ups are doing blow and lamenting their existence. You just don’t get it because you’re not brave enough to get it. 

When meditating, these thoughts dissipate. I feel good because this version of me is not present. The second I step out into the world, the innocent dreamer kid with not an inch of callous skin returns. I constantly ask ‘what if’ and dread over decisions I made months or even years ago. I want these thoughts to die. I want to be me with my white canvas. I don’t want to give a shit about other people’s opinions. I want to allow myself the ability to forgive myself, find my own happiness, and look forward. That’s the only experiences I want to aspire to. 

by ty miller

lonely

lonely

Smells are too pungent and natural daylight is too rare. If only someone were here to express these frustrations. Lay in my bed, say nothing, sleep happy, and feel rested. I can do without my detestable details and overly intricate expectations, as long as you can do the same. A time will come where I’ll ask you to dive into my brain with me. I hope you’ll join me but also be brave enough to yank me the fuck out when I’ve started to fry both our circuits.

Being lonely with myself and with others, it’s a self-inflicted state of mind wound. Hell bent on bringing the word itself to fruition while pushing aside the already established – we’re always alone. 

Instead I’d let you rest all day while I plunge into my mind, crafting my next battle plan. I’d look up to watch you sleep, prepared for the first eyelash to lift from below your eyes to welcome you with black coffee at first sight. That’d be enough. You be alone. I’ll be alone. 

Climb down from my loft, sip from your cup, and look out the window in your underwear at the birds. I return to my war chamber to plot the day. Never minding for one second, though, your invasion of my space is welcomed. Rest a head here or there. Share a laugh or nine. Smile, walk away back to sleep, look at the birds again, or start your own farmer’s market for all I care. 

Just be, forget the rest. Forget the world, their opinions, even those you share the room with. Be alone and love alone. 

by ty miller