Back in college, I used to like a lot of people, from a far. From a distance, so to speak, I obviously am ignorant about their lives, likes or dislikes or perks, etc...so to create this convincing image of them in my day-dream-drenched mind, I would dress them up with all sorts of fictional stuff. Like she might be a lonely, rich girl in a big white house in some sub-urban niegbhorbood, writing in her journal all day...and often times I would be knocking at her door, two sorrows meeting at last, all that mush or she's just plain lonely like me, and we need each other. I used to repeat that dream wherever I go, inside the classroom, in the bus, before I go to sleep, and especially when I'm scribbling stuff in my notebooks. And in that little world of a dream, a real dream of being with that dream person always seem to rise up above the little other dreamlets.
Once I really did end up being with a dream person. I celebrated it like a holiday. Fun, fun, fun, joy, joy, joy. I dove into this person, everything about this person I meticulously caressed with the voracity of a medieval scholar. And I was very good at this...but nothing is there that resembled the dream I juggled inside my head. The reality of this person is someone I don't know...and made me back off a bit. But then I surrendered myself to love. Perhaps love will make it okay, and create for me out of this new person, a new dream. But instead, I only got reality dancing in my face. Our bodies gave up but our passion was crazy. We knew nothing but to please each other. Afterwards it was just plain exhausting. And degrading. Nothing is there but the delicious feeling of doing it again, and again and again...ad infinitum. Looking back now, it's funny that we haven't really talked like real persons...for the mere meeting of our eyes, would make our clothes drop, and we are there again, like "mechanical rabbits from hell." Machines.
My dorm mates would treat me like somekinda Sexgod or something, and they all wanted to be like me, and to join in their banter I would say yeah, but at lights off I feel like shit...
The worse position, I have learned, is that where you have everything but still feel you have nothing...beat that.
I was wrong back then to falsely identify myself as the body. We all want to be happy, and pleasure is the number one thing that gives us happiness. So I feed the body with its pleasure thinking that by doing that I, the body, will be happy. But as I felt rotten as ever after all the beds I wrecked, there must be something wrong with me, perhaps I'm just dead-plain depressed, or that I am feeding myself the wrong stuff.
It's like feeding your fish with cake or chocolate. Or it's like a fish out of water...gasping feeling like shit...and you brought it to a concert...still gasping...you shot gunned it with high grade dobbie...still gasping...you brought a beautiful prostitute to sit on it...still gasping. Maybe putting it back to the sea would help. I felt like this all the time until I discovered who I am. I am not this lump of matter of bones and flesh, Aham Brhamasmi, I am spirit. And knowing who I am, I know what will make me Happy. Being minute spirits in this universe happiness for us would be to be reconnected to the Supreme Spirit in love.
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