My self-image is fragile. There are times I could conquer mountains, infinite obstacles, and the universe itself. An almighty feeling of omnipotence.
Yet there are other times... where I come to shatter to million pieces from the mildest doubt or criticism. An eternal fragility, a feeling of powerlessness.
Self-esteem and self-loathing are merely the dual complements, the yin and the yang, the dancing faces of my self-image — this idea of me. They call that idea the ego.
This constant game of tug-of-war between liking and hating myself is nothing but the wheel of life taking its course. There is no existence without non-existence. There is no like without dislike. There is no good without bad.
At times I find myself awake and liberated, free from the bondage of this limited life as conceived by this thing I call the mind.
The mind sees in black and white, flipping from one to the other as if a mere child’s play — yet to me and my soul, it causes naught but suffering.
This, in those moments of enlightened clarity, I know I cannot change. The mind plays its role, and the soul plays its own. Different roles, different parts of me, different realities.
All I can do is take one giant step back — out of this thing I sometimes call self. Because whatever I call self, and whatever I call anything for that matter, is not who I truly am. It is but a projection onto the canvas of the world.
I am not the canvas, I am not the world, I am not the projection. I am the projector.
When I look out to the world, what I see is what I project there. Somewhere inside, I choose exactly what I project.
I choose exactly what I project.
Somewhere, deep inside…
I create this world I see.