The nature of reality

Reality is mental. It’s what you imagine it to be, whatever you imagine it to be, and why wouldn’t it? Why wouldn’t our reality be to our dictation?

Reality is not inherently uniform. A wealthy man’s reality is remarkedly different from that of a poor man’s reality, and not because “they were just born like that.” If I were to think like, and conduct myself as, the rich man would I not grow riches and become rich? And vice-versa, if I were to think, and conduct myself as, the poor man does, would I not lose wealth and become poor? We are in affect of our realities, not cause of it, and to think otherwise is to allow yourself to be cause of it.

Reality, being objective, exists within the mind. Change your mind and, effectively, you change your reality. What else could have power over reality than the mind? Things come and go, but you are the one constant of your reality, so what, but you, could have power over that reality? Think good thoughts, and you shall have a good day; think bad thoughts, and you shall have a bad day. The decision, and power, to determine whether your reality shall be a prosperous one, or a tormentous one, is yours.

Objective to perception, and therefore subject to dictation, reality is ours to decide. If we shall not make up our minds about reality, than reality will make up our minds about us, because reality cannot be uniform, not in a universe of endless possibilities and men of distinctly different worlds. One need only realize these fundamental axioms of the nature of reality.

Dealing is a process

Dear batali, it’s been about seven years now since your passings, and I, gradually coming to grips with it, would say I’m quite proud of how I’ve been doing so far.

I was in some form of denial at first, believing that coming to terms with the loss of a loved one meant carrying on about your days, almost though nothing had happened really. Resonant with the old philosophy, “it’s no use crying over spilt milk”, I thought it no good brooding over the past, and so I’d decided I’d focus on other things, any things else: work, school, play, friends, etc, etc, yet no matter where I went, I could never escape the memory of you gently lingering in the back of my mind always. I rarely spoke of you, unless asked, dwelling in thoughts of you only in my quite time, which I’ve allowed myself a great deal of over the years. I had tried to bury you mentally, and fight the feeling that you are gone, in an attempt to convince myself of some delusion that I was past your passing. I suppose I had feared succumbing to defeating emotions, feeling that I’d be making myself out to be weak, and hurt, but no I wasn’t going to cry, I’m stronger than that, or so I thought, but I began coming to the realization that it’s ok to not be ok.

The world keeps turning, and we keep moving, and as much as we wish it could at times, it never stops even at the death of a loved one, and so I assumed that I was to keep pace with the rest of the world, allowing myself no time to lick my wounds. I realize now that that was flawed thinking, I’ve come to find that talking about it, about who you were, about what you mean to me, and about your absence feels good. There will always be emotions of you, and to try to bury that would be to pile up a mountain of those emotions for years to come. I suspect that even in my twilight years, as aged and ancient as I may grow, you will always be in my thoughts, which is good because I wouldn’t want to forget you. I’ve come to the conclusion that dealing with the loss of a loved one is not forgetting them for the rest of your days, but remembering them each.

I am no longer wounded by your absence, but overjoyed by your memory, and each day I shall think of you just a bit. I shall carry a smile on my face as I go about my days, as even though you may lay tucked away in peaceful slumber, you remain ever alive in my thoughts, and I am glad of that.

Signed, the surviving.

To share a conversation

Communication is meant to be a two way thing, so unless you’re telling a very magical story of a little girl in a red hood with a basket, it’s no fun just being the listener with the occasional head nod.

So I’ve come to note, as of recent, that a large number of individuals either don’t know, or even possibly just don’t care, of the difference between talking to someone, and talking with someone to which there does exist a great degree of difference.

Perhaps it is my own communication skills that are in grave lack, but at times I find myself the victim of a conversation that doesn’t really include me. Subject to an individual who seems to have no real interest whatsoever in any feedback I would have, they will go on, and on, in this epic monologue, and it isn’t that I dislike chit-chat or anything; as a matter of fact I happen to enjoy a good conversation that leaves me feeling inspired, and excited, but some people simply disabuse me of the idea of engaging in conversation.

A conversation should have all parties concerned feeling involved, and participating. Maybe I stand alone in this, but I like to feel as though I’ve added something to the conversation; that my involvement in it was far more significant than if you had talked to a brick instead. A conversation is an activity to be enjoyed by all parties involved, not the subjugation of one individual to another’s rantings, and ravings, with the seldom “yes, totally” and the occasional head nod.

The sad thing is that these individuals tend to have interesting things to say – they really do – they’re just not that interested in what you have to say, which can leave one feeling well uninvolved, and well unappreciated, in the conversation. If you want to talk, you must be willing to listen, and then you would have talked with me, rather than to me.

Its raining

Its raining
and I’m in solitude.
Solitude of the mind,
My thoughts criss cross with no one to reflect off of.
My disillusions of reality go unchecked.
With no one to confirm or deny them.

Its raining
and I’m in solitude.
Solitude of the senses, as the cold chill bludgeness my senses now dull to existence itself, now numb to being.
The textures of life fade away.

The weather now a reflection of my state of being.
Constant, present and just there.
The clouds blanket the city, the rains fall like unforgiven angels as I watch from my window:

Its raining
and I’m in solitude.
Solitude of definition.