I seem to be writing quite a bit again. This comes with spurts and waves, so it might go silent again by the end of this week. However I don't want to crowd this section with topics only by me, so I'll refrain from opening new topics each and every time. Anyway, here's a new one, again a couple of minutes old, might rewrite some stuff again, but this is it for now. ------------ Realization I look in the mirror, stare at my face and I wonder. I look deep into my own eyes, follow the receding hairline, glance at the protruding nose, languish in the cracks around my mouth and I question. I take the shape of my face in account and I consider. What is it that makes me so different from the others on the street? What is it that defines me as different from them? What is it that makes me… me. Millions of others have receding hairlines. Millions of others have protruding noses. Millions of others have cracks around their mouths. Yet somehow we seem unable to grasp these simple physiological similarities and focus on the differences. Yet, now that I pay so much attention to myself in the mirror I can recall no difference and only notice the similarities. Maybe last night was too hard on me, maybe the morning sun shone too brightly, maybe the clouds made it too overcast for me to think more positively, more constructively. Maybe we’ve just been fooling ourselves with imaginary differences. Maybe we’re more similar than any of us would like to admit. And I ponder that statement. I ponder how people would react knowing they had killed someone similar, instead of someone different. I wonder how people would react if they would have known they hurt someone that is more like them, than they were told to believe. Could that be the issue, that this constant strife is the result of something we are told to believe? Some imaginary dividing line constructed to keep us apart? A number of fronts created, based on minute differences to keep us divided? Are we not social creatures? Animals with brains large enough that we can actually refute our instincts for contact? Animals with an intelligence high enough to contradict our own need for acceptance? Do all men not crave to love a woman? Or a man for that matter? Who is loved isn’t really the question now is it? It is the love in and of itself that is the key. Yet perhaps it is also the lock, the locked door out of our confinement cell. Are we so locked within our own minds that we cannot accept that others have their faults and problems? Are we so obsessed with their negative traits that we are blinded to our own? Perhaps we should reverse the polarity of our acceptance and question ourselves and accept others unconditionally. Should we not question who we are, instead of who they are? Should we not strive to better ourselves? Should we not point out our own fallacies instead of someone else’s? And my mind wonders back to the weather conditions that presumably made me so contemplative. I catch myself taking the shape of my face into account. I realize I glance at my protruding nose. I become aware of myself languishing in the cracks around my mouth. I trace back my receding hairline and look into my own eyes again. And I wonder: what makes me so different from the others on the street?