quiet. ness.

It's not that I have anything to say in particular.
I just want to write.
Lately I've been thinking, about the gap between words and Reality, the space between all people.
And how my perceptions of others have nothing to do with them, and everything to do with me.
It is just me, and I have no access to anything outside of my perception, my emotions, my self.

Is this a revelation?
It sort of feels that way.
For a long. long. time,
I've been grasping for acceptance from other people,
as a prerequisite for me to accept myself.
To speak awkwardly, however, there is the issue of how to accept the acceptance of yourself by others when you partly find yourself unacceptable, to yourself.
And why?
By what absolute measure, and who set the measure?

So now I am sitting in a quiet house, listening to the rain.
In my head are strains of music that I've been playing on the piano,
and enjoying it.
In my head are bits of the conversation over martinis I just had with my roommate.
In my head is the realization that when people say "It's not you, it's me," they may think they are lying, but really they are telling the truth.

And every day, I feel like I'm letting go a little more, not of any particuler Thing, but of the act of grasping. Maybe this is action without desire? I have realized I don't even want the things I would have to strain for, to break myself for. I do not want to act out of fear, most especially the fear of people. Or the twin of fear, which is desire. Because desire always deals with what isn't. But I am more interested in what is.

The ever-changing what is.