Last night, while wandering through a mad, beautiful playground of strobe lights, leather-clad club-goers, bondage and fetish play, and a haze of alcohol, I looked into myself.
I looked into myself with every drink. I looked into myself with every mentally-appraised judgment of a passing stranger. I looked into myself when shyness overwhelmed me and spoiled a possible connection. I looked into myself with every moment of reticence. I looked into myself as eyes refused to meet. And then I looked into myself quite literally—in the mirror behind the bar.
Between the smoke, the dimmed lights, and my gently blurred vision, I appeared to myself much like an apparition. That's when I noticed the name on the front of my shirt: TOOL.
Instantly, my mind drifted away to the rhythm of Forty-Six & 2.
This was the place to free the repression within. This was the place to let one's shadow play. This was the place of self-fulfillment, but my fear—my constant need for control—would not allow me.
That's when I realized that the freak inside that so desperately wanted to come out and play was not the shadow. It was the pale face emerging from the dark, truth-bearing t-shirt that was the shadow. It was (and is) the obsessive need to control, to direct, and to structure that lead(s) me astray.
Appropriately, pale is the color of death—for death seeks to control all; life is that which transcends control. Perhaps, I need a tan...
"And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him."
[Relevant Link: http://changingminds.org/explanations/identity/jung_archetypes.htm]
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