Apparently, once Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi described his life story with the simple line, “I was raw, I cooked, I burned.” I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. I don’t have any claim on the spiritual connotations, obviously. I simply feel like some truth is escaping me, but I have no idea what it is. Sometimes writing really is like walking in the dark.
A good friend of mine got quite disappointed in me for not speaking openly about my disappointment in her. I gave her these long-winded explanations, bitter that she got the upper hand in our little philosophical debate: She was accusing me of being insincere, me, “the defender of sincerity and truth”! She was confident that my action was flawed at a much deeper, more fundamental level than hers, everything I was saying was obvious and beside the point, and I lacked the appreciation of a fundamental, common value... but what?
Then this morning I remembered something I wrote to another friend a few months ago. I wrote, “if I’m telling the feelings and thoughts you spark in me not to you, but to others – then no, we are not close.” And I remembered that I felt really strongly about it. So I did have this notion buried somewhere, I just forgot… I guess this is not a good enough answer.
The question then is; why am I not telling what I should to these people? People have their reasons for keeping quiet. There are different levels of relationships. Sometimes we foresake a higher, closer, more fulfilling relationship for security, peace and quiet, and just stay at that lower, “civil” level. We don’t rock the boat. The same can be said for foresaking dreams, principles, the truth. And when we don’t face and speak the truth, we are insincere. Sincerity is not just about sharing the most mundane details of your life and feelings. Ayca Sen wrote a beautiful piece about this yesterday.
And the reason I do this is simply my insecurity. If I don’t try for something better, I will never have to face my true worth.
Last night I also remembered something I wrote when I was sixteen. The girl I was then doesn’t like the person I turned out to be. Perhaps I am living a Benjamin Button lifestyle, turning raw as years go by.