The interiority of a human being is a dark, winding road. It is a hall of mirrors. The journey to the bottom of that well of a humans interiority is to explore the falseness of ones ideals and firmly held beliefs. The act of that undoing by way of deep and obsessive examination is a journey that is reserved for a select few.
I hate this world. I hate it for the weight it crushes us all with. I hate it because it is untrue. I hate it because in seeing how futile it is is to also see how many of us are affected by its weight. I hate it because it has blinded those around me. My absolute hatred of it drives the mining of every minute detail of my life. I am currently on a ferry towards Martha’s vineyard. I recall the insecurity I would feel as child in the presence of others while with my family. I recall the way this environment caused individual reactions within each of my family members. Those feelings were all false, all lies. And as I board today those memories return and in me breeds a deep distaste and hatred for not only the beliefs i’ve held onto but the amount of maniacal digging i’ve had to do to realize that it was all false. All of it. None of this is real. I have seen behind the curtain and it pains me to see the truth from what is presented.
Now in the shop
As I prepared to end my call with my father he ended our conversation with a phrase he’d often retort, “Nothing is free”. This is a phrase my father would often say to sum up any experience.
Hearing that today hit different. As a kid hearing that phrase made me wince. I hated the ease in which he would utter it. It was as if he knew something I didn’t know and refused to share it. I lived my life as a reaction to that phrase, motivated to disprove a theory I hadn’t thought to examine.
He shared details of his life today, many of which I was already familiar with but today was different. The details shined like a bright light and I was interested in exploring each of them.
“Why’d you choose to do that?”, “How?”, it was as if the stories had new life in them. And they did, it was what I now saw. The details in his unwavering devotion to arrive somewhere. For my Dad it was owning a home. As he shared this story from his kitchen preparing a surprise dinner for my Mom I now understood the phrase loud and clear.
Life is an onslaught of things. It’s just that, things. Whatever the costs were he was willing to pay. He was right, nothing is free. Everything has a cost. Even freedom.