authority of the ghost

When I let go of the tight grip of time and space that constitute the gravity of life, I feel empowered to stroke against the fixated norms of my environment whose rigidity I ordinarily do not realize because I have become so habituated to living my life as told - with some degree of flexibility but mostly without questioning its absurdity - by the ghost of "authority."

I recall my last travel in Morocco when I had some harsh principles of traveling. I couldn't possibly allow my dogma to slip away from the thought that I should not travel without meaningfulness; I must have the right purpose of traveling - that does not take advantage of the local culture. Afraid of imposing AND imposed, I abstained from traveling the touristic cities in Morocco - where colors of spices would've danced for me on top of the magnificent cone-shaped piles only if I walked down the alleys of any local market, and I missed my chance of a possible encounter with a Genie that would've fulfilled my wishes only if I tried on a pair of babouches marocaines, the handmade traditional leather slippers.
I didn't travel - I spent my November of 2011 in a tiny mountainous village where every house was soaked with the comforting and enriching smell of olives from pressing them at the corner of their houses through generations - because I feared indulging myself in the consumer's joy that would end up exploiting the authenticity of the culture by forgetting "how the things that allure my sensations came to be made" and "at what cost."

I was almost looking for a heavyweight on my conscience to stay connected with the center of myself; what I hadn't realized was that I wasn't quite ready for an intimate encounter with anything outside of my own because I was so self-absorbed in the mission of being the grade "A" traveler - evaluated by the ghost of "authority."

I feel like I want to cry; I feel like crying because I feel alive - the joy of being alive also means there is sadness in accepting growth. It feels sad to grow sometimes because you realize the old t-shirt that you gave so much meaninng into does not suit you anymore. But in the end, maturity of the soul is met by a new level of gratitude of accepting and being accepted, I guess. The child inside of me dances again, pushing away the good old "authority" that has long faded out.

Peep. peep. I am sure the ghost will revisit me again and again. But that's okay. I've got a new t-shirt that says "I am happy just the way I am."