Who Is Sitting on the Throne?
Sometimes I think I know it all.
I feel superior, and so I just want to prove I am right. Or prove that you are wrong.
That gives me the idea that I am better.
It feels good.
It feels like I am in control of the situation.
But it doesn't last long.
The good sensation vanishes very quickly.
A sense of emptiness comes soon after, because the truth is that behind this wanting to control or to be superior, there is a little child.
A quite insecure child.
The little child is actually very sad.
He has no love.
He is just looking outside to get it.
That’s what he does all the time: he looks for confirmation in the outside world.
He tries to fit in.
He needs someone else to prove his existence.
He needs love.
Clearly, from his fragile position, he is not able to give love to anyone.
He is just longing for love.
He is focused on wanting, so he doesn’t give anything.
He only notices what he doesn’t receive.
What he doesn’t have.
What others do wrong.
How badly they treat him.
He is never satisfied with what he has or with who he is.
For him, it is never enough what he receives.
It is never enough what others do.
The Man Appears
Some other times, the little child is not in charge. That’s when I feel like I don’t have to prove much.
I surrender.
I am confident, vulnerable, and strong, without wanting to be any of those qualities.
It just happens.
It feels good. It feels like home. It feels like there is a man in charge.
Love is available inside himself.
He doesn’t need to look for it in the outside world.
He doesn’t feel like wanting anything from others.
He doesn’t expect anything.
Yet, this man truly enjoys other people’s presence and their company.
He gives and receives, and he’s not even paying attention to what he is giving.
It feels more like co-creation.
It is just happening.
There’s not even much to say about it, because it is just what it is.
Maybe what we call presence.
You and I
With you (the outside world) as a mirror these days, I have been noticing this back and forth between the man and the little boy inside myself.
When it happens. How it evolves. How it transforms again.
Sometimes I am aware of who is speaking and who is in charge.
Many other times, I am not.
When the little boy is in charge, I get triggered by any little thing, by any little criticism. I become selfish. I only see the little "me". I am afraid. I don’t feel safe. I protect myself.
When the little boy is not in the way, and the man is in charge, I see you, no matter how you are. I just see you, for who you are—with your woman, and your inner little child too. There is compassion. Acceptance. Respect.
You and the little boy
"You are gaslighting me!" you say.
"I don’t understand. I actually feel gaslighted too. I feel the reality is so distorted when you speak to me. It doesn’t resonate. There is no intention of gaslighting."
— says the little boy, trying to protect himself.
Suddenly, the little boy forgets about the situation and starts playing again with his toys.
The man is in charge again.
And again, I feel in between two worlds. Between the man and the child. Between the wanting and the knowing. I get the feeling of being gaslighted now, inside myself.
But it doesn’t take long for the little boy to react again, at the first sign of criticism..
"You keep doing the same—push and pull!" you say again.
"And you keep accusing me! Stop it!" says the little boy. "Speak for yourself! Stop pointing the finger!"
He is becoming aggressive. He is definitely angry.
“Push and pull…” I reflect. That sounds exactly like what I am experiencing inside, between the boy and the man, who are constantly switching places.
"You are so unstable!" you say.
"Ahahah, unstable? Me?? Are you sure you’re talking about me??"
— the little child snaps back with superiority. "You’re the one confusing me! Talking to you makes me dizzy. I feel like I’m seasick!"
The little boy, fighting with you (the outside world), now wants the man to take his side. He wants recognition and cannot accept that you don’t give it to him.
The man does not know what to do.
He sees the boy’s loneliness, so he follows him in his fight.
It’s the only way the man knows to stay close to the boy.
The conflict with you grows and finally ends with the man “saving” the boy by closing the conversation with you. The man did it for the little boy, not for him, and now, sad, sits in a corner.
The Man and the little boy
The boy, again in charge, suddenly turns toward the man and accuses him:
"You ended it too early! You didn’t protect me enough! Now I don’t have anyone to talk to any longer!"
The man, exhausted, collapses.
The boy cries for a while, then, slowly, he forgets again.
He starts to play.
And I feel like I’m on a boat in rough seas. When the man is steering, the boat cuts clean through the waves. When the boy takes over, it rocks and spins. The instability lies in this constant shift at the helm.
One day, the man, exhausted, tries to speak to the little boy.
But the child is still reaching outwards. When he has attention from the outside, he wants it from the man. When he has attention from the man, he wants it from the outside. He is never satisfied.
"What do you want?" the man asks.
"You don’t know what I want?! You should know!"
— the child screams.
And so, the fight begins again.
Finally, the man sits next to the child.
He lets him point to everyone who is not nice to him.
The boy cries and screams.
This time, the man does not follow the little boy, he does not try to save him. But he stays.
Eventually, the child stops. He relaxes. And he begins to play again.
They play together. The man thinks, maybe this is the way. Maybe they are learning to be together.
But soon, the child wants more. The story repeats.
The man realises he still doesn’t know how to talk to the child. Sometimes they connect, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the man forgets himself.
And the cycle begins again.
The Throne
I observe the story repeat again and again.
I wonder—who will sit on the throne next?
A quiet sadness sets in, realising that I don’t know.
So I let them play.
I try to hold compassion: For the man who is doing his best, and for the child, who is just a child.
And in that moment, when I accept that I do not know, they stop arguing.
There is space, curiosity and peace.
Creativity returns.
And I begin writing this story.
Now I ask:
Who is writing all this?
The confident man?
Or the little child, hoping to be noticed, trying to look like a man?
I don’t know.
Perhaps none of them.
Perhaps they are writing it together.
