Entitlement

One of my most vivid childhood memories is locking myself in a room with books, a lot of books, especially the encyclopedias. I have been looking for every clue ever written on paper about the internal philosophical maze that has both amused and eaten me alive since I was conscious of my existence. Silence has always been my good friend, so as the waves of inner conflicts, which (I have eventually concluded) were carried over from previous lives.

My grandmother, out of worries, often tried to invade my locked room. One time, when I was probably six, I screamed at her: “I am entitled to not help you now. I am sorting myself out!” – I meant it.

20 years later, I woke up one morning, on a mountain in Mid-England, and realised a job interview was waiting for my confirmation. The problem was, I was on a meditation retreat and my great teacher would never grant me access to the real world. In short, the appointment had to wait. For a moment I felt guilty. It was the same guilt that haunted me whenever I wanted to leave a lover, or an unsatisfying job – The guilt of not being able to give people what they want from me.

I stepped out of my bed and made a statement (to the window), which I believed could only come out of a two-decade deep meditation: For as long as I have lived, I have been the destroyer, because I couldn’t fake it. From now on, may there be NOT a noble statement attached to anything I do, whoever I love. I am entitled to be happy with my own creations and share my best possible companionship, period.”

There I was liberated. I (finally) allowed myself to live without the miseries of other people, to listen or to not listen, to dance like a retard, to create ambitious and colourful plans, to not accept unhappiness and incompatibility in my life…

I am entitled to do things with a smile. I am entitled to live true to my heart.

I am entitled to not help anyone. I am also entitled to want to help anyone.

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– Skye

Business of imagination

Oxford, England

We strolled around town, museums and colleges looking like castles. Alan, in his navy suits, ran after some kids and indeed made one cry. I laughed mischievously while comforting their poor mothers. Everyone on the street stared at us and somewhat envied our carelessness.

There were days when Alan sat with the chief officers of some major financial institutions while I joined some diplomats and Frankenstein-scientists. However, saving the world was not our main concern back then; more often we found ourselves laughing at each other in French cafes, daydreaming on the grass, counting deers or making our way to the secret rose garden of Cecil Rhodes.

At night we went ghost hunting when Alan talked to me in Dutch. I just assumed he said he loves me. Under the winter moonlight, as we walked through the cobblestone streets, I asked Alan what was his profession back in the 16th century.

“An astronomer”

“You know what, I was Princess D’Annam!”

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– Skye