Category: Rant

  • Struggles and Triumphs: A Personal Journey to Finding Joy and Fulfillment

    Struggles and Triumphs: A Personal Journey to Finding Joy and Fulfillment

    Life. With each passing moment, I question more than before about ever experiencing true joy. A fulfilling joy. One that is shared, not just fleeting. Joy that isn’t prompted nor courted, but spontaneously spawned in moments that I choose. Not the joy that I choose. The moments that I choose because those moments matter. Such moments must be filled with joy if its gravity is to be liberating rather than oppressive.

    I often find myself convinced that such joy will remain elusive for the entirety of my lifetime. My efforts towards securing it have resulted in a brutal education that I now wish to share with others so that they may be educated in kinder tones than I was.

    Purging the contents of my mental clutter is not as therapeutic as it once was. There is much comfort to be drawn from anonymity. However, there is much suppression of the spirit when living a life of anonymity. At some point, I was foolhardy enough to surrender my anonymity in favour of authenticity. I still mull over the wisdom of that choice.

    After abandoning anonymity probably some ten years ago or so, I had to assume a more responsible posture in my writing. As romantic as it may be to speak from the heart in unbridled musings, there is a line that I never wished to cross. That line is the point at which my musings may expose the flaws or undermine the dignity of others regardless of their treatment of me. If I hope to have my dignity honoured, I must do my best to honour the dignity of those whose paths cross with my own.

    Holding myself true to this principle has tested my resolve near to breaking point. But if I give in, I would lose myself to the same stench of life that I lament in the spaces that skirt my own. The seething entitlement that is born from ingratitude causes my temper to wretch and writhe threatening to release spittle with every word that escapes my spasmed lips. But I cannot lose myself to such vulgarity, there is enough of it within that took safe harbour during moments when I was too young to realise what accommodations I offered for the misery of others.

    Swimming against the stream is tiring, and the only solace it offers is that I am able to swim. Reflecting on my state when I launched my reinvention in 2018, I realise that it was the absolute drudgery of my life in corporate and an unfulfilling relationship that catapulted my exit from that life, embracing with fervour the promise of creating a new one. I’m trying desperately to reconnect with such conviction now without having to slip to the bottom of that slope first before finding it.

    Cryptic thoughts, eyestrain, and caffeine is all I find. Ephemeral joys and encouraging progress is what keeps me from surrendering, although I can’t say with certainty that I would surrender in its absence either. I can barely say anything with certainty these days except for what lacks in joy and fulfilment. The writer’s block that has plagued me for so long is not because I can’t find enough to write about. It is because I can’t find reason to believe that it will be received with tenderness, or appreciation.

    Swimming upstream is inspiring for those who observe the feat, but is soul destroying for those who go the distance alone. If there is one lesson I learnt well but still ignore for the most part, it is the lesson of knowing with certainty that being a voice for the oppressed is the loneliest place in the world because once the message has been received, the oppressed resume the worship of their masters while the lone voice that provoked the change that heralded their relief becomes socially awkward for those who hover in its orbit.

    I don’t think there is such a thing as insanity. I think there is only poor communication and incorrect assumption. Between the two, the crazy halos of hell are visited upon our lives in ways that leave us gasping for air and scratching the walls of horror for relief. Assumption, is therefore the bastard child of hope that aspires to be accepted by the distracted. That’s how a life of torment is created.

    I don’t try very hard to be understood anymore. I don’t try very hard at all.

  • An overdue brain dump

    An overdue brain dump

    Haste is from Satan, and clemency is from Allah. These words have plagued my thoughts in recent months. The feeling of compulsion to take action because of the frustration of revisited and avoidable contentions becomes difficult to subdue when the desperation for peace and ease scratches inside my chest, threatening to suffocate the enthusiasm out of me.

    Words like cacophony and incessant ring in my ears as if desperately colluding to express the noise that rattles around my being. It’s a bundle of colourful and flowery expressions that offer no relief, but only more clutter. With every expression is a need for reception. If not received meaningfully, it negates any need for expressing it at all.

    Life continues to teach in ways that destroy any traditional norms of imparting wisdom. Those who seek but understand not what is required to acquire, are often dealt the most brutal blows that test their convictions in ways that threaten to unseat their character. This has been me for the longest time.

    The relief from corporate drudgery lasted for some few years before the weightiness returned when the themes showed up in my personal spaces once more. However, my capacity to navigate it was much improved and my opportunity for finding solace in my own quiet spaces is irreplaceable. The decision to leave corporate continues to resonate as a resounding moment of inspired wisdom. The path has not been easy, nor comfortable in any way, but the fruits of such labour have been enormously rewarding beyond even the scope of the entirety of my achievements in corporate.

    It’s hard to imagine how the peak of my 25+ year career doesn’t compare to the most mediocre of achievements in my new journey, when by comparison in material terms, there is none. In material terms, corporate wins every day of the week. But in terms of life, it fails dismally at every turn.

    The imposter in me has triumphed more often than it should, which has left me debilitated and doubting on matters that I have no basis of comparison against which to determine its feasibility or its futility. Perhaps that is what troubles me most about this new path. It is unfamiliar and lacks in substantial support from those around me. I am therefore my own sounding board, my own echo chamber, and my own critic. I’m usually brutal in all regards.

    Nonetheless, receding demands that I fight my nature. That is a fight that I have always lost, so I know better than to even try. Inevitably, I lose the fight and then blaze a path of inspired destruction of everything that I believe needs to be destroyed for me to rise above the drudgery of duty and servitude.

    Duty and servitude is only such when it is out of obligation rather than purpose. Purpose is lost when we focus on fulfilling responsibilities and obligations while claiming our rights. A right claimed is never enjoyed. The contamination of the motivation behind the one who fulfils it through obligation denies me the sweetness of its fulfilment. That, in a nutshell, in a cocoon of complexity, in a little ravage of reality, is the struggle of life itself.

    To be purposeful through mindful subscription is the greatest challenge that we face as humans. We are too easily distracted by what we need, and therefore lost faith and trust in the natural consequence of living purposefully, and with grace. But grace is lost when dignity is traded for social admiration. Thus, we trade our souls for the promise of peace, only to discover that we lost both in the transaction with our demons.

    I sometimes scroll back to old ramblings from more than a decade ago to determine if I have grown or changed, or perhaps lost my way since. Surprisingly, I keep discovering sentiments and observations contained in my writings that serve as a reminder of where I’m at, not knowing whether that is a reflection of the absence of growth, or the confirmation of the distillation of wisdom in those moments that offer a timeless insight into my state of being.

    The day when the merits of my contemplations will be determined is still a distant way off, at least from my current vantage point. But, if I have learnt anything these past five decades and a bit, it is that vantage points change more regularly than the seasons, and with it what seemed unattainable before is soon taken for granted, and what seemed obvious before suddenly appears deeply cryptic. It is therefore foolhardy and somewhat arrogant to assume that any single moment in time is a moment of absolute realisation, absolute connection, or absolute truth.

    As long as I breathe, I evolve. Not as a body, but as a being. And theories of evolution hold absolutely no answers in such evolution.

  • A distracted populace

    A distracted populace

    When popular opinion prevails over the wisdom of the ages, fear greatly for the next generation.

    We live in times when good appears as evil, and evil appears as good.

    When standing up for something on a basis of principle is dismissed as idealism, and the path of least resistance is seen as the only sensible thing to do.

    When respect is confused with good manners, and sincerity is confused with being polite.

    When the worst of us leads, and the best of us are ridiculed for expecting more.

    When we look to the past with rose coloured spectacles, we lose the essence of the effort that created that past, while believing that nostalgia is all that it offers.

    When we surrender to the thinking that times have changed, we lose sight of the fact that we’re changing the times.

    That’s how the feeble-minded gain popularity through stroking the egos of the masses, while the masses are deluded by their social media feeds into believing that they’re being progressive.

    And in the midst of all this ridiculousness, we have a generation that is lost, yet horribly confident about everything that is lacking in substance but full of self-gratification.

    It is going to be a disastrous day when they realise that self-gratification was in fact a coping mechanism for self-loathing, and life grew empty as they lost their connection with their roots, their cultural heritage, and their identity.

    Assimilation has never fed the soul, it only ever destroyed our sense of self.

    A society that demands assimilation is a society that is doomed to failure because it already lacks the substance and the credibility to deal with differences.

    The future cries in anticipation of what we’re producing in the present.

    When will we awaken from being so woke?

  • Patiently persevere

    Life has never been simple, and only threatens to become more complicated with each day that passes.

    Sometimes I flirt with the idea that perhaps I was destined to struggle with so much so that I can learn the lessons that need to be learnt to share them with others.

    But my gut says that is not true.

    “Whatever ill you experience is sent forth by your own hands.”

    A verse from the Qur’an that is always a stark reminder that life is always more difficult when you are unaware of the full breadth of the consequences of your choices and decisions.

    The less wisdom you have about life when you set out to create one from very little at your disposal, the more mistakes you must make to acquire the wisdom that others simply inherited from a wholesome upbringing.

    Comparing notes is forever an indulgence in self-pity. That’s why I never compare notes.

    Whenever I find myself on the wrong end of the life that I thought i was creating, I take a moment to pause.

    To reflect.

    To catch my breath.

    To understand.

    Then I shrug off the self-pity and forge ahead once more.

    If the best efforts of my life will result in nothing more than misery, then I want to be damn certain that it’s a misery that I choose and not one imposed by others.

    And in the process, I’ll laugh heartily and mock cynically at my repeated attempts to figure things out by myself.

    Because when you don’t have a gentle hand guiding you through life, you need to brace yourself for colourful experiences.

    The moment you stop to lament the absence of that gentle hand, you’ll lose yourself to its absence, and become one with the harshness of the world that has no place for innocent mistakes.

    You don’t need others to be kind to you before you learn how to be kind to yourself.

    Nor do you need others to be supportive before you believe, with conviction, in what is important to you.

    Any excuse about not pursuing the life that you want because of the absence of support from others is nothing but an excuse that denies you the value of who you are.

    The trials that we face are the unintended consequences of the decisions that others have made, while the ill that we experience is the unintended consequences of our own poorly informed decisions.

    Strive towards not being a trial for others by being more mindful and diligent about the decisions that you make for yourself.

    And when you get it wrong, allow yourself to be human, own your mistakes, and try again.

    Life was never designed to be mastered on the first attempt.

    Where would be the fun in that?

  • Knowing your place

    Understanding where you fit into the strategy of the lives of your significant others will save you a lot of disappointment and even pain. More than this, understanding where you reside in the totem pole of their priorities is essential if you hope to maintain your sanity. If you are not aware of these two simple points, you’ll assume that the value system by which you embrace them is the value system by which they’ll embrace you. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

    When every ideal of yours is shattered by those in whom you tirelessly invest the moments of your life, you’re left contemplating who you are and what you stand for in the face of an abhorrent rejection. To claim grace and dignity in that moment when the audacity of ingratitude bears down on you without shame, becomes the battle that will determine whether you lose yourself to rage or do you hold on to the remnants of the self-respect that allowed you to invest tirelessly to begin with.

    Creating spaces for a life filled with love always seems like an amazing way to spend your life, until those spaces are neglected by the loves with whom you hoped to share it. The hand that gives is greater than the hand that receives because the hand that receives rarely understands what it takes to be able to give of that which you sacrifice much to earn a little. Receiving bears the threat of entitlement, while giving, the threat of arrogance. Lose sight of yourself in either, and you’ll become one with the ingrates who trade with entitlement and arrogance.

    Of course, this means that you must have first claimed yourself to begin with. Most have not. Most are defined by what they want to be seen as. They want to be seen as glorious, but offer only vainglorious ethics. They want to be seen as generous, but they trade with ingratitude. They want to change the world, but truly, they only mean to claim more from it for themselves. And if you grow up believing that you must take what you need in life, you’ll have no reason to consider the hands that toiled to create what you have available to take. Hence the ingratitude with which you are bound to operate.

    But giving while trusting that you will have what you need when you need it requires a trust that is scarce. When we realise that the values by which we live is not the values by which we are received, that trust in humanity, or even in our circle of endearment becomes a hot coal that we juggle in our hands, burning ourselves out while not having the heart to discard it because we know what it’s like to be discarded by those who don’t have it. For anyone looking on without appreciation for why that hot coal must not be abandoned, we appear as nothing more than a dancing madman persisting in self-harm while everyone else is self-preserving.

    Perhaps that is the place of the insane, whom, by the standards of the society around them, remain the only hope to retain some humanness where there now appears only a desert of isolation. In that desert we reach out to each other with tentacles of materialism while yearning for a warmly touch from living flesh, but incapable of receiving it with gentleness when it is offered, because we feel entitled to its offering because of our assumed place on the totem pole.

    When you step away from the system that depletes your dignity, you need a resolve that holds you steady as you navigate the darkness that remains in the spaces outside of that system. A cryptic life leads to a cryptic mind of cryptic thoughts that deepens the isolation of spirit, and increases the takers who reach out with those tentacles demanding a piece of your soul while reciprocating with a shallow smile and a goodly sentiment. But no warm embrace.

    Know your place.

  • The quick sand of my mind

    The quick sand of my mind

    The icy breaths that leave my mouth on a miserably cold morning is the only accurate reflection of the emotions that stir within.

    I see messages proclaiming that love is the answer to the world’s problems, but they don’t realise that most don’t know how to love. It’s the arrogance of the assumption that if we had it, they must have had it too.

    I met a calloused soul today. One who was so steeped in her victim-hood, that she couldn’t grasp her contribution towards the destruction of an innocent soul. So vile was her gaul, that she stepped forward uninvited to offer comfort towards the crushed innocent, completely oblivious to her contribution towards the state in which she found the little one.

    Such is the dementia of those who believe themselves to be above reproach because they didn’t actively participate in the abuse of the meek, but only sat quietly on the sidelines observing it play out, waiting patiently for their moment to leech significance by offering comfort to the one whom they abandoned in their moment of need.

    The bile rises to my throat, desperately wanting to clothe such contemptuous beings in the only fluid capable of digesting their caustic character. But my desire to be distanced from such hair-encrusted soap scum leaves me seething in my efforts to maintain my composure, torn between wanting to shake some sense into them, while simultaneously convulsing at the thought of touching them.

    This world is not big enough to create enough distance between me and them, with death offering the only path to peace.

    Sometimes, the most expensive lessons we learn in life are a result of trusting the wrong person. Once more, as I contemplate this reality, I find myself repulsed by those who cast frivolous quotes into the ether of blind optimism and toxic positivity, believing foolishly that doing the right thing will only yield positive results.

    If this torturous world was so easily subdued through the persistence of a positive thought, why then do so many innocents destroy themselves in search of such goodness? Why then are the starving still hungry, the abused still defiled, and the gluttonous still leading?

    The victim mindset is the greatest oppressor of the kind-hearted. The self-pitying soul is the most ungrateful of them all, and the martyr the saddest.

    Tonight, I find myself adrift on an icy lake. Not carried by tranquil waves or exaggerated ripples, but instead, sliding uncontrollably in no particular direction, finding comfort in the movement, but no fulfilment in the futility of its course.

    Wishing away reality does not change it. It simply adds it to the burden of those who are more aware of the impact of that which you wish away. Such is the reality of the victim mind set. So focused on its own struggle, that it grows criminally oblivious to the oppression it imposes on those around them. When they withhold their contribution towards uplifting others, they prioritise their efforts of desperation to have their own struggles honoured first.

    See my hurt before you ask me to see yours. Such is the pathetic indulgence of those who believe that their struggle is the only struggle of such epic proportions that lesser mortals will crumble if only they had to endure the same fate.

    Thus, surrendering to fate becomes the ultimate protest of the coward. The one who abandons rationality and choice in favour of embellishing their selfishness with a cloak of proclaimed vulnerability.

    I feel the bile rising again.

  • A brain dump

    A brain dump

    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.

  • Exhale

    Exhale

    Breathing becomes laboured when I’m not sure if I want to hold something in, or let it out. Expressing my disappointment at the events that appear to be in an incessant loop feels like an indulgence in futility. I’ve expressed such disappointment before, yet, here we are. Staring each other in the face again.

    The cloying saturation of feigned optimism on social media leaves me wretching from the fake sweetness of it all. I feel a need to speak without restraint, but even that appears futile. Some may assume that such expression will at least rid me of the madness that stirs within. If only it was that easy to contend with the madness.

    The inconsistent flow of inspiration abandoned and its abandonment then inspiring me to write, and then discard, and then to restart what once was to be writ creates the taunting tinny tone in my ears that time seems to intensify, rather than subdue. Time doesn’t always heal. Sometimes, it mocks and jibes and laughs as I wait expectantly for it to harbour some relief of the madness that it nurtured.

    Breathing is laborious when it holds no promises, but promises only lies. Deciphering the one leads to the other, and abandons me somewhere between the two, leaving me spent in the past, yearning in the present, and disillusioned about the future. I exhale, deeper than I inhale, feeling faint, but the toxins still firmly lodged within. They won’t leave anymore. The process of eviction and welcoming them back after each cycle seems to point to the pointlessness of them leaving at all.

    Exhale. It holds so much expectation. As if the release of what is spent will create spaces for what is new. But jadedness turns new into old, and old into oblivion before either sets foot in the soil of my soul. The ramblings of this madman persist in cryptic notes understood by few, appreciated by even less, and ignored by all.

    The blessing of anonymity is compounded for one who is anomalous. Between the two, fading into the distance blends naturally with the landscape of a life soon forgotten, and love that never was. But, we must exhale if we hope to create space for the end that awaits. Holding my breath only delays the inevitable, yet I continue to ignore the writing on the wall, instead focusing on the written notes discarded by the fears that lifetimes before me have spawned.

    Fear. The ultimate destroyer of hope, and the aborter of dreams. It creates more heartache than loss ever did.