A low slung but consuming headache over 3 weeks has intensified concluding with me sitting in the Edenvale Hospital. Crazed thoughts drift. “Allergies.” “Tumor.” “Cancer.” Every dull light and slight noise screeches in the echo of my skull. The pink dots all over my lily-white ass skin don’t exactly cut a seductive picture either. Oh god the itch. The banging in my head. The ‘everything’ is just too much. Even for myself the dramatic is beyond ‘melo’ But here I sit hoping. Drawn dark curtains, comforter and warm sugary oats a far cry more welcoming that the sterile smells of over polished linoleum floors. Floors that bounce the fluorescents straight into the sharp crevices of the pounding and itching. Aaaaaaargh!
This week has seen the incessant arguing still unresolved. Arguments that I still cannot fathom whether they are over highlighted by my inability to see things clearly through the consuming physical distractions. The question still hanging as to whether all my social-media should be deleted. My empath is distraught by the levels of pure horror called humanity. Like seriously what the heck is wrong with us. Hatred, decadence, cruelty, egoism, unwavering self-righteousness, unwilling deafness, and petty self-glory culminating in a broth of absolute Stephen King mastery. Yet kindness prevails through it all as Johannesburg citizens and private enterprise cart gallons of water to desperate Cape Town.
Like a deliberate mic drop this blog swiftly hits the the floor exploding full throttle into the title, ‘Rivonia Revelation’.
Sitting on my patio the other day I pondered the statement that the way to hell is a highway yet the path to heaven a narrow foot path. Taking religiosity out of the equation and loosely referring to hell as destruction and heaven as enlightenment; why such stark varying comparisons. Narrowly escaping the illusion of muchness, I guess, contentment lies within a tiny sphere of just enough to pass through life equipped to live with minimal pulls towards false grandeur. Afterall they say, ‘All that glitters isn’t gold.’ I guess from a distance a flickering furnace might warm the cockles of one but close enough be fried.
I remember the biggest frustration about rehab was the privilege of choice and freedom taken from me. Rightly so as I had become a hazard to myself. Excruciatingly frustrating nonetheless. My ego wanted recovery on my terms. Oh gosh I threw every plausible, justifiable and humanitarian excuse I could think of at my helpers. The truth was that my pampered and addicted ego wanted comfort. My ego, as it still does, does not suffer well. I wanted the ‘world’ to know that I was fabulous but huuuuuney I was a toxic. I needed to be popped into the yellow box inscribed with red, ‘Hazardous’. I didn’t want anyone to know that I hated myself. I didn’t want anyone to know that I felt betrayed by life and myself. I didn’t want anyone to know that death seemed a better option than the ‘Picasso Face’ staring back at me. The very mirror I was polishing in morning duties I didn’t want to do. I wanted my pile of ego blinded anger rather than the labour of discovering the truth about myself that kept me a prisoner to my lies. I thought my nice car, nice home, nice job rubbing shoulders with the whose who was better than facing my truth. A truth which everyday I pay the price to rectify. A truth so beautiful that I see past every propped up designer frilled sequined what-what. I can’t help myself. Every bling I wonder who are we trying to impress and why?If the story behind it one stained by integrity or lack thereof. I don’t know why I feel this way but I am addicted to real. I crave authentic over plush. Even in relationships I value truth as hard as it is over lies. Somehow a lie eats at me and makes me quite insane. A truth I am fighting tooth and nail for. Honesty. Not the kind of debated honesty that is rife with egoistic battle. A truth that when you experience it, as hectic as it is, it somehow releases all the shadows that cling to us like cotton balls in velcro.
Over the years as I have and continuously learn to let go of ego I find a greater joy exists within me. The freedom to choose rather than to follow blindly. Blinded by the fury of glittered masses with hidden secrets and insatiable appetites for indulgence. It is as if I get a taste of something higher than me when I share my little with an other in need. Seeing the need of the hundreds around me, at the hospital, patiently waiting their turn to have medical treatment I am brought into an uncomfortable reality. A reality where human stripped away from behind social media facades and ‘fake it till you make it’ pretense is where the mic hits the tar exploding into full colour realism. Where who we are is the same as they are. Each a story. Each a life striving to survive beyond an ailment. Each a hope of a brighter tomorrow. The arrogant whitey hiding that they are on equal footing as the maid. The concerned maid wondering how her kids got to school as she got here before 6 to get done in time to wash the clothes. By hand. The fearful foreigner wondering if they will be rejected. The elderly, hipsters, nicely dressed, the made up, the couldn’t care less and myself huddled together following a process of wait, pay, wait, get called, wait and hope nothing more serious will follow. Hoping that today will bring resolution so that a life free from this warming but cold reality can be avoided and forgotten for a while. Where ego can stroke our self-glorification and blind us from the fact that we are the same. Frail humans.
SO WHY IS THIS HIGHWAY CALLED EGO SO CONGESTED?
Is it possible that our need for purpose is being used against us by the very same species as ourselves that manipulatively sprinkle sparkles of illusion over our authentic selves? Are our lusts for validation bridled to magnified truths twisted just enough to lead us from the hard underfoot ground to the self-heated, lush, luxury and almost self-driven vehicles filled with fat propped up, injected faces and plastic loaded bodies blissfully unaware that greatness lies in the freedom of choice and not in the low hum of speedometers heading to a chaos covered in bejeweled horror?
As a stylist I often have to swallow the bitter pill of: ” It is the clients choice at the end of the day,” and as a guy desperately trying to do my job honestly to have to sometimes settle for doing something that, although, not life-threatening, still a lesser truth, is tough to do if putting food in my belly is the bottom line. Sometimes I wish I had the courage to starve to death than be forced to survive on a lesser satisfaction. I guess it is like taking a pill to stay alive but one which burns all the way down.
SO WHY DO WE RECKLESSLY FORCE EACHOTHER TO SWALLOW THAT BITTER PILL ONLY TO FALL PRIVY TO EYES THAT SEE OUR GLITTER BUT NOT OUR HEARTS?
The evidence is so overwhelming. Each of us craves this illusive love. Today as I sit in my queue I see it in every set of eyes begging for their personal ordeal to be over. My head pounds as the lights seem to cut like a knife. But yet the prisoner in orange and chain seems more valuable than my hurt. Somehow the beating heart whispering words in a language I don’t understand, so alive. I am content in my pain and itch. I cry as I read the story of the Pastor that got shot and didn’t make it. A whispered rumor is that a colleague hired a hit man so that his own coffers could be loaded. Money honey! Is this where we are at? Money more than life? Are our hearts so dead to the glorious lives we are given? Are we so stained by every luxury that we fail to see the heart that fought bravely to live but didn’t. God I weep, unashamedly.
I LOOK AROUND AND WONDER WHY WE HATE EACHOTHER SO.
When the mic hits the floor and the rubber burns on the tar we are left with the same result…. you, them, us, I and everyone else are here together. Not one made as better. Not one made as plush. It is our fear of being discovered that we are not really who we display ourselves to be that keeps our ego fed. Our ego hates being aware of the fact that at the end of the day when all is said and done…… we all are the same. Frail humans craving love, hiding behind our plush ‘fake it till you make it’ bravado’s. Trying to be brave in the fact that we are living disappointed. All of us. But we need to find the foot path of wonder and lose the highway of bewildered.
As I sit angered by the one I love, for leaving me to go through this alone, I smile and remember love hurts. I am not the only one. In fact none of us are. My fear dissipates. Joy sits with me in my pain that smiles at those who valiantly serve us today. Who knows what they are going through? Love hurts so beautifully kind.