I’ve come to know Thai culture pretty well, but today was my first encounter with the pure belief that I might be in the process of getting knocked out.
When she pressed the cold menthol smelling cloth over my face my first instinct was to rip it off and leap up. I may have even moved an inch todo so. But I get into mental games of my own very quick sometimes and so I stayed still and decided that at the slightest feeling of faint or dizzy, I would bolt. I even thought of what positions my legs were in and whether or not I should move them to make for a faster leap. I had whoations of panic. I was feeling light headed, wasn’t I? She had looked at me oddly upon entry into the massage room, hadn’t she? She would have stolen my phone by now, wouldn’t she have? These questions genuinely laced themselves into my brain current. I made the very conscious effort to control my breathing and after each intake, I did a quick assessment.
I didn’t wake up in the back of a covered pick up truck. I didn’t wake bound in ropes or in a pit of snakes. I didn’t even wake
because I didn’t even sleep.
I didn’t know what chloroform smelled like, but I do now because I looked it up thinking that if ever such an event happened again, and it WAS the real thing, I would know.
This week I figured out why I value questions.
They are important to me because it is the way that I reveal myself.
I became interested in communication in highschool. I didn’t know it then, but that is what was happening. I realised that people like to talk and that there are a lot more talkers out there then listeners. And I’m a people pleaser.
So I became quiet and listened and didn’t say much.
Until I’ve reached this point in my life where I’m making things more difficult because I am not speaking.
“Why didn’t you just tell me that then?”
“Because you didn’t ask me.”
” I thought you would just tell me whatever you wanted. You know I want to hear anything you have to say.”
I have had these conversations numerous times. With my old best friends.
I know I have tried to be better. To assert myself and to give out information freely.
But it is so easy to not.
It is so easy to sit back and glide with the current of all the others.
It sounds terrible. I know.
But I learn a lot this way.
I learn a lot about myself.
I learn how naive people can be. How much they can not not know about their ‘friend’.
My friends don’t know who I am anymore as a result of my silence.
I’ve been open. I’ve been free and fine to tell people a lot of things.
But they haven’t asked me.
So I find myself in this room of doubt.
Maybe I don’t want them to know these things about me.
It has started to become way too comfortable. It has become something I use.
Guilt becomes less of a threat because noone is asking me things that make me feel it.
To make me turn in on myself.
It is a dangerous place but this is how I came to the understanding of why questions are important to me.
Imagine our worth was gauged from space. Based on the visible of what we own. Field owners would be the richest people. Not even ones that own towers. And incorporate colours too. Blue shapes would be money lookin’ spaces. Spans of yellow would be worth a lot because of the profit that comes from it.
That’s a horrible way to judge someone’s worth in life.
To think a persons worth can even be calculated.
I’m worth three cars and she’s worth 12 cats. Um what?
I think it’s really neat that everyone is a different worth in someone’s eyes based on the relationship between the two people.
We are all worth something. aren’t we. And worth differently according to different people. But having more people in our lives that value us, doesn’t mean our worth is more.
It doesn’t add up like that.
I wonder how accurate we could place our own worth. Collect it from the various in our life and then divide it? I think that’s not where it should come from.
The most important worth to have, is our own.
And we see others worth of us, based on it.
But where does our self prescribed worth come from.
It must, alittle. Come from other people?
Our value in worth itself must be different from each other’s.
But it must come down to some core fundamentals.
People shouldn’t be worth any amount of physical substance. Coin. Sheep. Chocolate milk.
But does it make it okay if we attach the word unlimited?’ They are worth an unlimited amount of hugs.’ ‘ They are worth more than all the peanuts in the world. And then some. ‘
We are always worth our own time.
Because without it,
we wouldn’t have anything to be worthy of.
Where do the worthy components come from?
From the people we grew up knowing? Our family?
The person we have become?
They are general speculations and I cant quite get to the specifics because I simply don’t know where they are.
It’s in my ears as I walk the broken sidewalks, as I step onto streets, as I sit on concrete benches.
It twists everything into a lemon lime sugar flavour. It’s bitter sweet.
For a few different reasons.
I’ve went a long time without it and I see what it does to me. It amplifies every step I take, it makes every strand of hair that blows away from me have purpose. It gives a story to each person I see. It makes me feel.
Any of these feelings can be felt without the power of music. But the intensity is elevated.
Miss rushes in severe enough to make me want to stop the songs.
But I don’t.
If music is listened to a lot, once we take it out of our system, do we feel less towards life?
Does the recognition of how good it was to feel at such a level make us believe we will never be able to feel that way in life without music?
Do we begin to rely on it to make us feel?
My mom relates an incident that I was apart of. I was there. She is telling it to my Aunts. And it is not how I saw the occurrence at all. How she tells it surprises me. Because I didn’t get what she did from it.
I don’t remember the first time I recognized this. But I know there was a point that I did. Because ever after that, I was at the very least, the slightest aware, of the relation between stories and their tellers.
I find it interesting how perception is. It is.
My mother wasn’t wrong telling that story the way she did because it was the way she saw it. And how we see things make up who we are.
When I hear stories I often get wrapped up in the story of it. I can forget that it is coming from someone who has perspective too, different from my own. The stories people tell, that you and I tell, are all told from the person we are. From our eyesight and brain sight and even our heart sight.
So when people tell stories, no matter what they are about or whether they are true or false, they are telling stories of themselves.
So when you meet someone in which from the beginning their stories grab a hold of you and make fascination spin a few wonders, there’s a good chance you’ll like who they are.
And when a person tells you that you’ve become apart of who they are, which is something that you like, you will begin to like that person more than a friend.