Some find solace as the years progress. Some find love. Some find an emptiness where space was once held in hope for a significant other. My contemplations of which applies to me hold no sway any longer.
Writing this post creates a delusion of its own. Although it could be interpreted as gratitude or reflection instead. Its true purpose and intent will always be hidden by the need of the moment. The need is seldom true to the act. Or is that the other way around?
A brain dump is supposed to offload that which is clutter and of little value to hold on to. It’s supposed to create space for peace and calm, while ridding me of the noise of busyness and inconsequence. It does neither tonight.
Tonight it serves as a search for truth. A search for discerning between illusions, delusions, and reality. It’s a tiresome search. To know sincerity from pretence, value from utility, acceptance from tolerance, or love from contempt. The guarded are always the most painful to navigate, and the most expensive to maintain.
In contemplating all of this, I find the fight slowly leaving my soul. This time, seeking to know the difference between wisdom and surrender threatens to disembowel a fragile peace that has accompanied my soul through the storms, until now. But its fragility grows meek and is left wanting in the face of fresh onslaughts.
The battle for sanity, or for space grows tedious. That it is a battle at all is telling in itself. What should be a natural state of calm, accentuated on occasion by disruption, is reversed. The calm only visits in isolation, and isolation leaves a disruption in my soul. Peace finding no place in either, isolation or association.
At times, it feels like life has been a perpetual midlife crisis. That constant search for purpose, or to reconnect with moments past. The questioning of direction, and the conundrum of what action would be most beneficial towards the fluid goals that suggest an abatement in the storm. Drop the mid from midlife and suddenly the scene is much more accurately described.
Are lighthouses ever decommissioned – wilfully decommissioned to allow it a period of graceful rest before its ultimate fall? Or is it expected to serve until it finally succumbs to the erosion of the lifelong yelping of the waves at its feet? No one tries to calm the waves, or to cause the shore to recede. But those who notice share a passing politeness as a token gesture of appreciation for the guiding beacon that is offered.
In many ways, I’ve often felt like a road sign. That critical point at which informed decisions are made by those who encounter it, but whose decisions always lead them away from it. Beyond the lighthouse, I think this is a metaphor that most accurately resonates with the life crisis that I’ve endured. But like lighthouses, road signs are also never willingly decommissioned, except when they become redundant. Otherwise, they’re left to their own devices for as long as they serve a purpose until eventually being replaced with a more purposeful one.
There’s a haunting irony in awakening the soul to the reality that surrounds. While it raises attention to the ephemeral nature of life and love, prompting one to appreciate with intensity its beauty before it passes, it also awakens one to the cold faces of the oblivious. The empty hugs, and empty stares. The vacuous efforts at validation and the consumerist indulgences of privilege. Leaving no human contact behind. Only human consumption.
Some exhaust themselves in wishing for times passed. Others deplete their resources in trying to capture the present moment. But many, like me, are in search of the fast-forward button to bring this charade to a final and quiet end.
No more chasing.
No more hoping.
No more wanting.
No more needing.
The end of expectation and the arrival of certainty.
It seems I have yet to earn the acquisition of such mercy. To know with certainty that you are seen. That you are heard. That you are loved. Not because of what they can get from you, but because of who you are beyond social standing, or relative placement in their lives. Expecting this from the oblivious is nothing more than self-harm. But trying to subdue such expectations is nothing more than an effort at being inhuman.
Perhaps in that lies the ultimate conundrum. Seeking to connect with your humanness so that once you do, you are left with the desolate scape of solitude as you realise that there are no humans looking to connect with your humanness. It’s like flipping the big switch that turns on every fascination of a world harbouring untold beauty, but being rooted to the spot perfectly positioned to only see but not touch such beauty.
The fight is slowly leaving my soul. And with each passing moment, the reality that it doesn’t matter, not now, never before, nor ever, is destroying every romantic notion I’ve ever embraced. The tree that falls silently in the forest disrupts no lives.