I’ve noticed times when people looked to me as if I should know something. Sometimes I give off the illusion of competency or even wisdom. People crave unshakable answers and experts. But I don’t like the focus, and I don’t believe in solid truths. Ultimately I falter and they despise me for not knowing any more than they do. I never said I did, they just assumed.
It’s funny though, because I do know more. I’m just not in control of it. There’s a well of knowledge I draw from, but it’s ultimately wrapped in meat — fallible spoiling meat. At times, people may be interacting with intelligence incarnate — other times, it’s just carne. It’s so common to witness when biochemically influenced beef leads the way.
We could be so beautiful, so perfect, without all that flesh in the way. But then what would we be? Essence drifting in aether? If we were ever solely spirit, that we would encase ourselves in flesh means we ultimately preferred this over that. To experience a structured life filled with mystery and impermanence, surrounded by visceral grit, this was our selection.
It’s weird to be a piece of conscious meat. I don’t readily identify with it, but I do get swept up in its drama, kept from knowing what lies beneath. I sense it at times, but life happens, I’m distracted, I forget. But do I really want to remember? Or do I want to awake each day ignorant and perplexed, always wondering what’ll happen next? If I’m here, I guess I chose the excitement of uncertainty.