It's one of those nights, I'm afraid. I could blame lack of sleep, or time travel, or the emotional roller coaster I've camped out on as of late, but I'm not sure that's what this night is about.
This night is quiet. The nagging little soothesayer that lives somewhere in a secluded cave behind my heart has wandered out into the silence and isn't letting me sleep. She's not even whispering… she's just giving me that knowing look. You know which one I'm talking about? The one that says, "Really?"
You can tell she's been kibitzing with some of my other demons, like Distrustful Sally and Fear of Commitment Bertha and Codependent Sam. They've got some kind of internal network that somehow bypasses Rational Max until they've had time to conspire and create a unified front. How can Fear of Commitment Bertha and Codependent Sam conspire together? Your guess is as good as mine.
I used to be really good at dulling that Greek Chorus with the steady application of red wine and mindless television. But then I gave up drinking and TV, and now I'm just an addict in search of a vice. I've considered internet porn and marathon running, but neither really do much for me. So I cleaned my house. And my front porch. And even a couple of the scary cabinets that contain the ghosts of demons past. The trouble with this method of self-study is that it dredges up years of muck and excess fondue pots.
The culinary villains are easier to part with.
The muck. Oh, golly. Some of them are logistically difficult, like wedding portraits and cut crystal everything, and others are even more difficult than the reminder of the epic failure and fall from The High Horse.
Like patterns, my friend. Patterns so established that the rug is threadbare and the footprints embedded in the floor boards. My wild, unbridled love affair with love. My passion for taking on the burdens of the world, for taking everything personally. The soft, comforting folds of shame and guilt. The fairy tale.
Satya is supposed to be about telling the truth. Most of the time, I think we focus on truth-telling as something we're supposed to do for others. Remember when your parents told you never to lie, unless it was for a birthday party surprise? And then you got to junior high and started to lie with reckless abandon? I'm pretty certain this is a universal experience.
Now I've told my share of lies and half-truths to others, but I'll tell you what: nothing compares to the whoppers I've told myself. The excuses I've made on behalf of others. The times I've wrangled that soothesayer back into her dungeon and walled her in. If there were only an Academy Award for this flavor of insanity.
So this is where I'm sitting tonight. On the edge of satya, reflecting on the lies I've told myself.
And waiting to see just what comes up.
And if I can do better tomorrow.
