Agent Smith: No, lieutenant, your men are already dead.
Well, it can't be helped. The middle finger of my left hand twitches by itself. The I that I think is me is looking at the world and seeing nothing worth looking at. It's becoming a chronic feeling of boredom that I just manage to live with day in and day out. It's tragic. I used to have so much lust for life prior to this. I bought a Tolle book and got around to reading it. I went to Mass at 8 and wondered whether all these were about the same thing. Over-analysis gave you that.
The challenges I give my mind: they excite me. Maybe the truth is I really wasn't wired for the normal human stuff like the work grind and having babies. And not because I'm special or something--there are way cooler people than me who know their way around with all these things going on and I respect that--maybe I'm just a little too unfeeling/flaky/subdued for my own good. At the same time maybe the truth is this is all just an excuse for fearing total surrender. Maybe I pretend to care. Maybe I care. Maybe. It doesn't matter, not really.
Neo's boss: You have a problem with authority, Mr. Anderson. You believe that you are special. That somehow the rules do not apply to you. Obviously, you are mistaken.
But truth is ultimately (ultimately--above when I say all truth is relative) knowable and absolute. I contradict myself left and right but if you look really close there it is: the moment you dis-identify with what your mind tells you about the story of your life, the moment you start watching/listening to your mind do its thing, you realize the harshness of how all this is not really what makes you you: not the relationships, not your personality, not your family, your job, your work, your studies, your travels, your experiences. The inherent fear of letting go of this, this hinders us. What are you if not your achievements, your goals, your successes, your privileges, your lineage, your favorite softdrink, color, shirt, music? We balk at the possibility that all this is just an elaborate, addicting illusion.
Agent Smith: As you can see we've had our eye on you, Mr. Anderson. It seems you've been living two lives. One life, you're Thomas A. Anderson. You have a social security number, you pay your taxes, and you help your landlady carry out her garbage.
Don't tell me you can't tell. You can bury your head in your job, in your love life, in your prayers, but who hasn't felt there was something wrong and off with how you really perceive the universe?
Morpheus: I can see it in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he is expecting to wake up. Ironically, this is not far from the truth. Do you believe in fate, Neo?
Morpheus: Why not?
Neo: Because I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life.
Morpheus: I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain. But you feel it. You've felt it your entire life. That there's something wrong with the world. You don't know what it is but it's there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I'm talking about?
Of course I'm reading too much into it.
Neo: I used to eat there. Really good noodles. I have these memories from my life. None of them happened. What does that mean?
Trinity: That the Matrix cannot tell you who you are.
But it's the only real thing I've ever really known/felt for a long while. The moment you let go, the moment you detach from ego, the moment you recognize brain chatter as not who you are, you see it. The point in all this.
I'll tell you in time in clearer words what I mean. I'm still grappling with words to define what I mean. Maybe describing it is all I'll ever be able to do. And it's okay, you know? If there's something else this whole thing-I-can't-properly-talk-about taught me, it is this: you have to learn to forgive yourself everyday. If you can start with that then you're well on your way towards what's real.