I disagree with myself often.

I talk to my Self in the mirror.

I want to punch myself in the face (or love myself, sometimes it’s the same thing).

I’m not sure Who or What I am.

I write myself letters to find out.

And make fun of myself to understand.

I take pictures of myself to see what I’m missing.

I speak about myself in the third person, hoping ‘she’ answers back.

It’s a relief to come to terms with the fact that you’re not one, but many. Out of those many mes, some I’d just love to hate. Others, I’d hate to love. But there’s a third kind, the (miss) behaving nonconformist mes I don’t believe but—strangely—trust. The ones I can let be, love and unlove, like coffee; taste and distaste, like water.

Still, when I close my mouth, I think I understand. Not life, but something like it. Some kind of breathing house you can only build by hit and miss. Unfit for the world but fit for some world. In which the only rule is the exception. Where playing is a sine qua non.

“Humanity has advanced, when it has advanced, not because it has been sober, responsible, and cautious, but because it has been playful, rebellious, and immature.”

~ Tom Robbins

“Rebel children, I urge you, fight the turgid slick of conformity with which they seek to smother your glory.”

~ Russel Brand

“Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.”

 ~ Albert Camus

“I really can’t think about kissing when I’ve got a rebellion to incite.” 

~ Suzanne Collins

‘Cause when your middle finger starts answering every question, maybe it’s time for some (mindful) misbehaving, no? That or meditation. 

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