Truth surprises you.
It won’t be how you expected it to be, nor what you wanted it to look like. And it might come from unexpected places.
The truth will shock you first, make you want to look away. Then, it’ll slowly change you. It will cut into the deepest parts of you to get to your core and your essence.
Are you willing to accept it, no matter what? Even if it doesn’t fit in with your plans? Even if it might look like it breaks your world and who you thought you are into pieces? – If it’s breakable, it wasn’t real to begin with.
It might turn out that what the truth broke was but the glass walls of the prison you put yourself in, imagining it’s a safe and cozy palace. And it might turn out that the mirror you were holding in front of you was just distorting your image and limiting your vision.
If you have the courage to pursue truth, you’ll soon discover that what it destroyed didn’t matter after all. It was just dust, blocking the light to your real self and holding back the touch of God.
Sometimes you notice there is a certain type of situation that is always repeating itself in your life and the result is not quite the one you want. Or a not so good circumstance lasts for too long.
When you are in the middle of one of these scenarios, the tendency is to think that life is not fair, the stars are badly aligned, and there’s nothing you can do. Or, even if you have a suspicion that part of the fault might be yours, you convince yourself that there’s nothing you could possibly do, anyway.
But situations like these are signs.
Signs that life, or God, is trying to tell you something.
And your assignment is to recalibrate the way you view an area of life.
This recalibration is not easy.
You need to dig deep into your beliefs. And to be brutally honest with yourself. So honest, as if it’s not about yourself. But it is. And that’s what makes this assessment difficult.
It feels like a remolding of your soul. It can be painful. But if you do it, you get yourself out of the circle. You get to not only move on, but you also get accustomed to the teaching style of life, the framework of its lessons.
The next time a lesson comes around, it will take you less time to understand – as long as you are willing to learn.
Not sure what this blog is about. Is it about me? Can I do that, have a blog about myself?
It’s about my thoughts. That’s something I’d love to do. Just write about whatever I think. It’s the way I’d like this blog to be. And the kind of blog I’d feel most comfortable writing.
I’d prefer to write in a mixture of English and my native language.
How many people could understand what I write in that case? Probably just a few. But it’s ok with me. I’d like to be unseen.
Unseen but expressed.
I remember when I was in secondary school, I wanted so much to be able to write in such a way that if anyone (mostly my father) would find my diary, they couldn’t understand it.
I tried to learn the Cyrillic alphabet. But then I found out he knew it, and I gave up the plan of having a secret alphabet.
I became a little paranoid about him reading my diary. Because I knew he did read it. Once or many times, I don’t know.
What I do know is that for a while he kept quoting from it.
I never thought about this before, but I think … is it possible that this is one of the reasons why I can’t write in my native language? It’s strange that even if English is not my first language, I only began learning it when I was 12, yet, I keep wanting to use this language when I write. Could this be it?
I often considered myself as being in between languages. There are things that come to my mind in English, and I know what they mean, but I can’t find a similar expression in my first language. Then, there are many words in English I don’t know, and I need to search for them. I can’t express myself with ease and completely freely in English, either. But that’s because of lack of knowledge. With the other language, it has to do with deeper issues.
It’s interesting to see how issues come out from the depth of your mind when you write about them.
In the past, I did think that my father reading my diary and using what he read against me could be the reason why I stopped writing and why I couldn’t write a diary for a long time.
But I never thought that this is why I keep trying to write in English even if it’s not as easy for me as it would be to write in my own language.
When a pattern from the subconscious mind comes to the surface, it’s always a good thing to identify. And writing helps with this.