Photo by Alex Iby on Unsplash

Your Opinion Matters

“Would it please you if I said your eyes were twin goldfish bowls filled to the brim with the clearest green water and that when the fish swim to the top, as they are doing now, you are devilishly charming?”
― Margaret Mitchell

When you look longingly into my eyes — as if about to kiss me — I want to look down toward my toes, shying away from the reality that I don’t like you. Not even a little bit.

But when you look deeply into my sole being — as if about to sweep me off my feet with your intoxicating essence — I want to close my eyes and capture this moment, forever instilled in my soul, my heart, my mind.

See the difference in perception here?

But you? You?

You are the same, whoever the fuck you even are. You could be silently reading this alone in your bed. Or you could be out with friends, scrolling through the nearly endless scripts found on the Internet.

You could be my reason for writing this rather random blog. Or you could be the reason I’ve waited so long to post this rather random blog.

My opinion of you doesn’t matter. And I hope you know your opinion of me doesn’t matter, either. And sure, I don’t know you (again, whoever the fuck you are), but I also know who you are to me, be it a stranger or a friend or a lover or an acquaintance.

But I also hope you know that you are special to me, because you’re reading my shit (thanks, man!). Not only that, but you’re a fucking human being, and all humans deserve a shout-out of being special every once in a while, yeah?

Others’ opinions used to matter to me (primarily when it came to intimacy, mind you)…

How should I look? Do you like long hair? Because I have short. What about tattoos? Do you like when I wear blue? How about when I mask my lashes with mascara? Do you like when I talk about philosophy and the realization that time is actually not even symmetrical? Do you dream like I do, and do you find me weird when I discuss my dreams (and also my alternate realities) with you?

What’s. Your. Opinion. Of. Me.

But I soon realized the only opinion of me that truly matters is my own. I create my own perceptions, my own truths, my own opinions, my own realizations, and even — my own experiences. I alone can control my opinions, and I will never (let me say this again, because it’s highly important I reiterate this: I will never) control anyone else’s opinion.

So I learned from this, what exactly?

I learned to be my fucking self, through and through. No pretending. No walking on egg shells. No facades. No masks. No lies. No shying away from the awkward as fuck look you give me when you try oh so hard to kiss me, when I’m yearning to be anywhere else! But also, no hiding my giddy feelings when you look at me the way you do, smirking and chuckling — fully mimicking my inner most feelings.

I don’t worry about what you think of me anymore, be it illusory or real, or true, or utter bullshit. Because illusions and realities and truths and even shit? They’re all your own fucking doing, man. Didn’t you know?

But hey, I still have an opinion of you. And you, of me. And you, of yourself. And me, of myself. That doesn’t mean others’ opinions have to matter so much to you.

You do you.

And I’ll do me.

Your Opinion Matters

Sorry, no — not yours

I try to rouse others to find their truths by writing about my own! Yoga, meditation and aromatherapy teacher. Author: The Reddest Rose Bleeds the Deepest.

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