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YANG — The Other Not-Me

Lest you think that I see myself as a guru, or somehow superior to others, I present words herein that should dissuade you of that opinion. To use a cliché metaphore, for every step I take down my personal path, my destination recedes 10 steps. In my best moments, I realize that it is the journey, not the destination, that counts. Unfortunately, my best moments are rare and few inbetween. Most of the time, I'm immersed in a swamp of lusts, desires and fantasies. The good news is that at least I've found this out. I believe there are lots and lots of people out there who have yet to discover themselves.
A lot of what I see in myself ain't pretty, but at least I'm beginning to see it. Perhaps at the age of 45, I'm slow in this process of self-discovery, but at least now I'm trying to peek beneath the veneer of self-presentation. So, read on if you like. Find me disgusting, find me wonderful. Neither is the truth. Or perhaps there's some truth in both viewpoints. As far as I'm concerned, I'm just me (or not-me), trying to do what I can to maximize my time on this Earth.


THE SCREAM

The scream is there, hidden as it is by a tight-lipped grin and grinding teeth and a forehead with three ripples over the nose. The scream is there, hidden but intense. So intense that it squeezes liquid through the tear ducts. Not enough for tears, mind you, but enough for watery-eyed, agonized viewing of "out there." Enough that those in the know can identify your terror. Enough so that you can never forget the scream. You carry it with you wherever you go. Work. Play. Sleep. Hopefully not death. Perhaps that is the difference between Heaven and Hell. In Heaven, you have made your peace with the scream. God, to make peace with the scream. I've tried and tried and tried and tried. It still haunts me, seeping through my pours at night, soaking the sheets with sweat. Jerking me around like a marionette during the day, causing twitches, rigid muscles and calcified joints.
I sense the scream in others, and am drawn towards them. Those without the scream, I don't trust. There's something wrong with them because there's nothing wrong with them. Invariably, they prove me right. (Or is that self-fulfilling prophecy?)
There have been moments when the scream has been muted. And as much as I distrust those without the scream, I also envy them, for the screamless moments are gems in an otherwise barren wasteland of time.