“Tearing away at the fabric which binds me is just one way I can lighten the load and find a clearing in the woods to lay down and do my work…unencumbered by the weight of my own fancied expectations and lies of the mind.”
We all have them.
Those stories. You know the ones – the little tales and fables that we create and tell ourselves over and over again. And sometimes trumpet to others. The stories that we act out on. The ones we rehearse and perform and perfect and groom and preen and fuss over. The ones that adorn us like glittering stones and sunset-coloured scarves.
The little white lies, the booming whoppers, the threads of delusion that shoot through our lives. You know those ones. And we stamp our lives with them like they are golden sheets of truth and hold up to the light of scrutiny.
It’s the things that we tell ourselves and believe them. Things like:
- I wasn’t meant to be happy
- I was never a pretty child
- Everyone I know is fake but me
- Girls don’t like going for a guy like…
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