My life has been one long intersection with sorrow. Sadly, this is not so much because sorrow has sought me out as that I have desperately clung to it. My journey with misery is mostly my own doing; my own foolish reliance on tearing apart my past. I do not understand my need for this, my need to jump into, to review and trash each choice. This need to review everything and "explore" how things would be "better" if I had chosen "better" really serves me poorly. This has no value, it adds nothing of quality to my life, yet I do this again and again. More amazing, I've done this for years. A function of my anxiety, of my propensity towards depression perhaps? I don't know. I do know that I don't like it. I don't like the way it raises my blood-pressure, the way that it tortures my mind, nor the way that it chokes the goodness from my life.
Driving along in Kirkland , home of the modern yuppie, I’m passed by a new Mercedes. Lovely, silver, shiny, new, bling-bling; a part of me loaded with insecurity twinges while I purr along in my Toyota. Why? How come this is a metric of my self-esteem? Am I being unfair to myself, being upset by this train of thought and it’s influence? Consider, please, how much this viewpoint is drilled into us. Look at how often this imagery gets pushed into our faces, and how long that’s been going on. It shouldn’t surprise me, really, that I sometimes feel this way. Though my conscious values oppose this, the lingering thread of this programming has threads into the depths psyche.
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