The Illusion of Difference
In social circumstances, we often find ourselves in one of two places. There is the inside: the groups that tend to form circles, backs and eyes turned away from the other group that makes up the fewer. These latter are the outside. The outsiders are those other fascinating humans who may have the tendency of finding themselves rather alone in the midst of such social gatherings. Now, many would say that it is a shame that so many (or otherwise so few) would fall outside the perfect fit of circular cliques, but outsiders tend to become insiders in their own right when they come together as another group. Those who have been deemed different may take pride in being such - they revel in it. They find their own sense of identity in such outsidedness and condemn in their minds those of the inner circle who fit nicely into that frame. Now, do not be mistaken - I do not uphold the insiders as such righteous people. Nor I do condemn the outsiders for taking pride in their own outsidedness. But there is a certain sadness when the plight of doing what you want becomes its own aesthetic within itself - when being an outsider becomes equally as task filled as being an insider.
Are we really to believe that we are all that different? Are we really to think that we should despise one another for the clothes they wear, or the ones they choose not to? Sure, we have our preferences, and we may let our preferences define us. And sure, too, we are all unique in our own right. But it is even this uniqueness that draws us closer to each other. We may wear differently, listen differently, talk differently, dream differently - but we are not as different as we think we are. Within, we are not really so different as we may hope to be.
In truth, we are all after one thing. It is love. It drives us. And we crave it, even as we chase after the pitfalls of the world's promised illusion of love. Whether we want to or not; whether we even realize it or not.
But it is love. This one beautiful thing that has been instilled in our very beings since the beginning of time. It has been with us, always, as a reflection of a maker's imprint on us. We are only able to love through the working of such spirit in our souls.
And it is what we want. We see it in every breathing thing; in every beautiful pulse of a living thing, in every radiance of the sun or servitude of the hands. It is all around us; its stillness infiltrates our very lungs. And we chase after it with every breath. Every choice. Our every need is defined by it, even if we deny it. Even as we run after other things or illude ourselves by the world's promise of it. Even as we may think that it is something else, its deepest meaning in our hearts is translated to it. Even if we cannot, ourselves, love. Even if we do not believe that we are loved by the very dust that sculpted us as it mingled with the breath of the wind, it is to such that we must return with a need so, so deep.
But how beautiful is this? That we, even from ashes as we came, could be loved in such a way; and that we may then be filled with it so brilliantly that we could give it to others. Such golden overflow of heavenly delight could be instilled so generously in the elegance of our souls so that we could only spread such love and joy to others. We are pure beauty, my love; we are pure delight. Go out and love until your heart is aching. And with such, know that your radiant fulfillment of such love is only through the grace of our spirits. Let us not run so far that we may forget where it was from whence it came.
Are we really to believe that we are all that different? Are we really to think that we should despise one another for the clothes they wear, or the ones they choose not to? Sure, we have our preferences, and we may let our preferences define us. And sure, too, we are all unique in our own right. But it is even this uniqueness that draws us closer to each other. We may wear differently, listen differently, talk differently, dream differently - but we are not as different as we think we are. Within, we are not really so different as we may hope to be.
In truth, we are all after one thing. It is love. It drives us. And we crave it, even as we chase after the pitfalls of the world's promised illusion of love. Whether we want to or not; whether we even realize it or not.
But it is love. This one beautiful thing that has been instilled in our very beings since the beginning of time. It has been with us, always, as a reflection of a maker's imprint on us. We are only able to love through the working of such spirit in our souls.
And it is what we want. We see it in every breathing thing; in every beautiful pulse of a living thing, in every radiance of the sun or servitude of the hands. It is all around us; its stillness infiltrates our very lungs. And we chase after it with every breath. Every choice. Our every need is defined by it, even if we deny it. Even as we run after other things or illude ourselves by the world's promise of it. Even as we may think that it is something else, its deepest meaning in our hearts is translated to it. Even if we cannot, ourselves, love. Even if we do not believe that we are loved by the very dust that sculpted us as it mingled with the breath of the wind, it is to such that we must return with a need so, so deep.
But how beautiful is this? That we, even from ashes as we came, could be loved in such a way; and that we may then be filled with it so brilliantly that we could give it to others. Such golden overflow of heavenly delight could be instilled so generously in the elegance of our souls so that we could only spread such love and joy to others. We are pure beauty, my love; we are pure delight. Go out and love until your heart is aching. And with such, know that your radiant fulfillment of such love is only through the grace of our spirits. Let us not run so far that we may forget where it was from whence it came.
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