The awkward turtle

Celebrating the failings of a successful person


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I can’t hear myself

When the daily traffic finally subsides inside my head there is no sudden reconnection with my inner self, there is no hearing of the very beat that pulsates through my body. And there is no nothingness. I don’t know what there is but I reach the frontier where my inner self resides peacefully beneath all the noise and still I cannot hear myself.

Instead I am met with fantastical new fears, obsessions, dislikes and disappointments. My imagination plays a slide show of recently collated images of a funny joke, a friendly face, an embrace; a skillful trick to distract me from hearing myself speak.

And what do I hope to hear you wonder? I hope to hear my true dreams; not the false ones that are centered around the gratification of my ego who is forever seeking adoration and victory. True dreams that once upon a time may have looked me in the face in a pure form without my anticipation of failure clouding any attempt to fulfill my destiny. (Everybody has a destiny and the Universe helps anyone who strives towards their own.)

I hope to meet my true feelings. There are times when I don’t even know what I’m feeling after straining my ear to the door behind which my inner voice resides. I don’t know what I truly feel so I make it up. I ascribe something that I think I must be feeling and take this impostor as truth. My true feelings I imagine to be like an intuition; an organic gift which we are all blessed with. One that if we were to listen to carefully could prevent us from veering off our chosen path getting tangled in the forest of lost time and wasted energy.  There are some mistakes that we should never regret making and those are the ones where we have learnt something more invaluable than whatever we may have lost.

But who should I blame? I can’t blame my inner self, she has always been there inspiring me, healing me, encouraging me to be brave loving cautious. Even in those moments when we are both aware that I have some free time I reject her company in preference to catching up with my TV shows, a duty I take far more seriously than living my own existence. I get lost in books, the very incarnation of those who could hear their internal voice. And when all avenues are exhausted and I come to the realisation that I am bored I sing and dance in front of the mirror.

Next time I hope to simply sit and have a conversation with myself.

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The highs of a perfume pusher

 http://images.teamsugar.com/files/upl0/2/20652/03_2008/PerfumeSalesperson.jpg

Sitting in the mall watching the shoppers fly by as I ate my lunch, I had the misfortune to be facing The Body Shop and spent the next 30 minutes bearing witness to active acts of avoidance as time and time again the perfume pusher struck out trying to promote the shop fragrance. Throughout the episode two things remained constant: me avoiding eye-contact with the sales-girl in question, and her cheerful facade which directly impressed upon me a feeling of depression. I spent the last few bites of my sandwich figuring out my exit strategy; I didn’t want to dismiss her as everyone else before me had, but I certainly did not want to be engaged. I took the coward’s way out and dashed as soon as she had fixed her attention on the nearest victims.

Like the homeless, perfume sprayers are given a wide berth in the brutal world of department store shopping. Even customers interested in their product avoid them like the plague, making bee-lines around them straight for the nectar of picking up the bottled sweetness with their own hands. The aisles are full with cheery chirps emanating from the assistants in their marked territory: “Hi there – “, “Ladies try the – “, each opening reaching an octave higher than the one before until the voices vibrate on a frequency that no longer impact our conscious minds. Background noise. Behind the glitzy perfume dust and fragranced air, the sales assistant stands, alone, among the throngs of unforgiving and relentless crowds. And when their veil drops it is a sad scene indeed. The soul-destroying experience of continuous rejection is a lot to bear and even more painful to watch. See the saleswoman shift her weight from foot to foot cursing the shoes that cushioned her feet so lovingly some hours before. See the sales-man drop his hands to his sides in resignation as yet another person looking everywhere but at him. And then they open their mouths humming a voice alien to them, to renew the cycle of silent abuse. Behold the sales assistant trying to change the world one scented spritz at a time! Like enslaved magical creatures they prance and jostle for our attention but nobody is interested in their fairy dust.

If you do one act of kindness whilst shopping this Christmas, lend a neck or a wrist to the solitary salesperson holding their allocated weapon of bottled of sex appeal/love/lust/etc, and let them douse you with their spray.