I am aware of the intense pressure I feel being “somebody.” Being invested in the character Skye takes an enormous amount of energy. The character is very serious, and a bit awkward, wants to do everything right, and cares mightily about others’ opinions.
If you can imagine a torn balloon stretched flat, my face is pressing hard against it. It has stretched the balloon material to its farthest reach—the point of the nose is white with strain. I am begging to break through—it’s suffocating. This is a weight that I no longer want to carry. I wake up with it. The pressure is with me while concentrating, and during the evening, the supposed time to relax. It haunts me prior to sleep. I awaken in the middle of the night, and it’s my unwelcome companion. And yet, like it or not, here the pressure is, happening right now. Life’s gift to itself.
Has it always been this way? I have no idea. I don’t think so, but the so-called character’s past is only made up of a few inaccurate snapshot memories of someone I no longer recognize nor relate to. There is no going back; “back” doesn’t exist. Whoever that character was, died—like every manifested thing does.
Can I hope for this to be different? I could, but that’s a fruitless path to suffering that I’ve trod down countless times. It involves preferences and imagination—all part of the mind’s subtle game to move away from what is, right now.
I notice that the pressure does vary, so there is a wordless mild curiosity and wonderment. Sometimes the pressure is gone. Thoughts about it grind away, but there is no fresh content; it’s all recycled.
And so… back to the pressure.
© Skye Blaine, 2011