Projecting

A perspective

I’ve just been told that projecting, in psychological terms, means I think I understand someone else’s feelings, thoughts, and responses: that I believe I “know” something about them.

But in reality, it’s always my own perspective and interpretation.

I don’t see the world as it truly is.

What I perceive, think, believe, or even this very idea—none of it is objective reality.

At least, I have a perspective. Well, I think so. And this perspective is shaped after my 54 years of life, which have included significant doses of trauma, joy, learning, unlearning, and watching TV.

To be clear, I haven’t been watching TV every minute during these 54 years, though! in the last 10 years, I have mostly been addicted to TikTok.

So yes, I confess: My perspective isn’t fresh or clear. It’s cluttered. And my ego, of course, desperately wants to believe it’s sharper than it is and would like to have a much better one.

Ego usually wants something more, something better, something different than what is.

It’s never enough for my Ego. But hey, I know Ego is a nice guy (just see by yourself at the end of the movie).

Ego simply needs to know what it is. Or rather, what I am.

To answer those primary-school-level questions, I can read hundreds of books or I can inquiry directly myself:

I am alive?

yes? really?

ok, Forrest, then for an instant ignore that thought about an “ego” or a “me”. This and many other thoughts may be present, simply let them be.

Simply sense this moment, this ordinary experience right now.

What is left, now?

mmmh, this is all there is, this ordinary presence, this obvious reality, the real world, exactly as it is, simply without believing the thought there is a “me”.

Ah. You think that was easy. Beware of the ego tricks, Forrest. Every moment is a new reminder.

btw I am writing this for myself, I know that unlike me, you don’t have any problem whatsoever with your ego, my love!

Everything is fine, my love.

Nothing is wrong.

Beyond thoughts, what do you see?

I see nothing, a formless world of peace.

No matter what you or others think,

regardless of what you or others do,

you are love, my love.

All of you is.

Your thoughts also are.

To be what you are,

what is needed?

See, admire, feel, sense, live,

be.

What else?

©Nathan Dumlao on Unplash

Beyond being what we are, there’s nothing else, really. My ego would like to have posted several unfinished drafts I have been working on—like a story about Lilith, Eve, and Samael in the Garden of Eden, or a debrief of my last talk on nondual coaching—but I have only this: a few poems a few words, nothing else.

There is only this.

This moment.

This instant.

This gift.

Tasting the gift, the present

Taste my lips,

Dive into my sin,

again and again.

Until we melt.

Savour my skin,

Sense what I sense,

Feel what I feel.

There’s nothing else

between you and me

No transparencies,

no veil.

Unveil your wholeness.

Savour the honey

of being.

Do it now—

can’t wait

to feel you

within me.

There’s no time.

Only knowing

what you are

makes you enough.

Conquer the world,

be free—

be you.

Nameless.

Eternal.

As you’ve always been.

©Kate Kozyrka on Unsplash

Since you are

I love you so utterly,

you could vanish from my life,

and dissolve now—

like salt in the ocean,

like a shadow at dawn—

and my love would not waver—

it might even deepen,

for you are the air, the ache,

the space between light.

To ask what you are

is to ask why the tide bows to the moon.

My love, you are boundless,

the infinite dressed in skin,

formless yet folding into form.

You are the breath inside every breeze,

the hum of stars spinning,

the silence between "you" and "me",

the embodiment, my beloved,

of infinite

love.

© Nathan Hanna on Unsplash

My perspective

I am so blind—

I see no difference

between a life unlived,

a love undone,

to live,

to love,

the ink-stained breath

of a letter.

My attention, so narrow,

ignores the crunch of my boot

on an ant’s brittle spine—

a mother of thousands,

now dust.

My vision is blurred:

I do not know Trump’s sneer,

Netanyahu’s breath,

Putin’s frozen grin,

or Sultani Makenga smell.

To me, they are all angels,

their wings dipped in the same ash

as yours and mine.

You may be worried,

who is Sultani Makenga?

accused by the UN and Congolese government

of war crimes, massacres, rape,

and recruiting child soldiers.

Who knows him and thousands more like me?

I am insignificant.

Peace, they say, is within—

but what is peace

when the world insists on carving

you from me,

as if our atoms remember

their names?

What is significance?

A myth. A flicker.

A scream swallowed by the dark.

I trace the edges of this chaos

and find only my reflection—

a trembling god

in a hall of broken mirrors.

I only see me.

I only hear me.

There is only this.

What am I, then?

I am all this.

Now…

…wanna listen

to me,

in my podcast?

Here here:

Being present is very easy, especially when knowing who is being present

A Forrest Beway perspective