Last night someone asked what I write about and I really couldn't give a satisfactory answer in my opinion, as I don't think I can find a line of best fit to quickly explain. What I do think is that we are all much more complex than our various blogs suggest and possess a depth that is far greater than we are willing to share.

Even those who get quite personal are only scratching the surface as their honesty is still aimed to attract followers and voters and a unrestrained look into the soul would rarely do either. If one could really present the mess of conflict and emotion that lay inside, most would be scared to face its retelling. 

However, it is below that mess that beauty and clarity reside and to get a clear view of the purity within, one must sort through and remove the tangled web and roof-high piles of years of collective habits. The human mind is like the mind of a hoarder where each piece of information, each experience is stored and when it is questioned says, 'I need that, it is part of me'.

But like the hoarders, the mess of all the pieces start to weigh down the house, restrict the movement within and take away options, possibility and most importantly freedom. The security of the collection that clutter the mind is what keeps us from peace of mind, keeps us from moving like the mental animal we are.<div class="pull-right">http://i.imgur.com/zsbldQ5.jpg</div>

Rather than run the unbounded length of existence, we hold onto all of the interactions of our past experience. We grip our childhoods, our parents ideals, the way we were treated, bullied, our victories, ills and celebrations as if they are still there with us, in the same room. But what we have is a house full of imperfect memories of the way we thought it was and through those memories, we try to understand who we are.

This is an impossibility as even though we come from those points of experience, we are not them and to understand ourselves now, we must examine who we are, now. For me this means to clear through the mess and dispose of it all indiscriminately. The memories remain, that attachment to them however, does not.

We are not our parents nor how they raised us, we are not the victim that was bullied, the left or right affiliate or the religion in which we grew. We are not our country, our passport, our culture, our flag or any violence done against us, by us or for us. Not the people we are married to, our children, teachers, education or any number of the myriad terms we use to describe ourselves. We are none of those labels at all for they are no more than words and shadows that can only represent what we think of ourselves. What we are is something else entirely than what we think.

This is what I write about. When the way is clear, I need not write another word.

Taraz
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