big question: why is there a discrepancy between what i say i want, and what i'm creating (in my personal life)?
"What you truly want and are creating is what you have, not what you say you want. What you are creating is what you have and where you are going. homelessness or nearly so? you create what your attention is on, fear or desire."
which led me to wonder, what am i creating?
i've played on an online sim (simulated world) for several years now. it's called second life. it's pretty fun, although when you're unhappy, it can become very addictive, and i think a lot of the people who go on probably ARE looking for a place to correct the problems in their life.
here's me on SL:
i added the beer and pizza recently. i don't actually drink beer in RL
note the tiger. that's an AI program. it's pretty simplistic, but a lot of fun, and of course i think of it as real. that's batu khan. next, note the gypsy caravan there on the right. that's been my "home" in SL almost from the beginning. by home i mean, wherever i'm hanging my hat, that vardo comes out. so does the campfire and batu and my buddha so i can meditate. the purple light thingie = windchimes.
and in real life, i live in a trailer. it's not anywhere near as nice as my vardo in SL. it's a 20-ft 1985 komfort bunkhouse.
this looks a lot like mine. i don't have the teeny window up at the top near the front, and mine's a lot older-looking and more beat up.
what i actually want is what i'm creating. what am i creating? having recently discovered Walden (the book, not the geographical location), i'm starting to gain some clarity about the things i want, but everything is still very fuzzy yet.
i absolutely positively don't want a cubicle. ever again. please, god, no, with whipped cream and a cherry on top. but working at walmart is not a permanent thing either, and there has to be some money coming in. even thoreau had to work his beanfield...
of course i want to write, but for god's sake, there's a reason i've never taken the plunge and just done it. it's not because i can't. it's not even because i'm not good. i've had professors tell me it's a shame i'm not wirint, that i'm wasting my talent and my time.
there are lots of things in this world i don't do well, but the one thing i DO have... is that i can write.
it's because i'm scared, somehow, or there's something there in me that wants me to keep trying and failing, that wants to devour any self-worth i may ever develop, to the point that i've spent my life trying to squeeze myself into a succession of boxes, NONE of which ever fit.
i've written posts before about my inner children - there are two: livia and pippi. livia is everything conniving and hateful about court intrigue and politics. think game of thrones meets roman empire. in fact, remember that there's a reason game of thrones and dallas and all these kinda shows are popular: cuz THEY'RE BASED ON REAL LIFE AND IN REAL LIFE, SOME PEOPLE ARE POISONOUS ASSHOLES...
so that's livia. my poisonous asshole. every single time i try to do something, livia is right there whispering poisonous words into my ears, trying to get me to believe all manner of awful things about myself.
pippi is just a scary, out-of-control child who does dangerous shit to decide whether or not the dangerous shit is worth doing. yes, she's revered and iconic as a symbol of rebellion, but to me, she's as much stupid rebellion as anything else. she's all animal id, without the basic overlay of commonsense you kinda need to survive.
this isn't a topic i can finish today. gotta go get cleaned up for work. i just wanted to start my internal conversation and see where it leads me...
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