Category: Random Thoughts

  • A brain dump

    The obstinacy with which I once wrote, escapes me lately. It was an obstinacy borne from the absence of expectation. Self-awareness is easily distracted by familiarity that we may share with others. In a moment of inclusion after a lifetime of isolation, the self is quickly lost.

    Re-finding that which was lost becomes an arduous task if it was never consciously claimed. A natural disposition that set me at odds with life has revealed secrets and lessons that continue to claim a heavy toll. I find myself in an increasingly awkward position of understanding with greater clarity many whom I encounter, while realising with greater intensity that I remain misunderstood, or more accurately, invisible.

    To be misunderstood implies that there is an attempt at understanding, or at least, an attempt at acceptance. Life has been more about a comfortable and convenient presence, rather than any belonging to a whole greater than my solitude. Even that presence was most often uncomfortable and inconvenient for most.

    The greatest ravaging that I’ve encountered was always after having felt appreciated. The betrayal of social contracts occur subtly, awkwardly, and most often silently. Occasionally, a slip of the tongue reveals the betrayal, but most often, it is the quiet withdrawal, the discreet exclusion, or the polite rejection of my efforts that proclaim boldly that any shift I assumed to have achieved in my belonging to that whole was a shift teased into reality by a desperate soul.

    Looking at the stranger in the mirror, wondering about its peculiarities and its incompleteness, the detachment between it and I increases. Out of body experiences are rare occurrences for most, but feeling like I am one with my body has always felt strangely unfamiliar. It’s a dichotomy and an ambiguity that perplexes more than it comforts. I would have thought that after more than half a century, some familiarity would have evolved in this regard. I assumed incorrectly.

    Sharing the long form posts that once was my grounding point in my search for sanity has long since been abandoned in favour of delivering a thought, or a string of thoughts, in small, hopefully coherent chunks appealing to the masses, while betraying my true desire for unbridled expression. That desire waxes and wanes, but it has waned more than it has waxed for the longest time now. The need to tell my story, or any story, diminishes with each hour.

    I always subscribed to the philosophy that if we do what we love, we’ll never work a day in our life. What I didn’t realise is that when my sustenance for the bare essentials of life became dependent on that which I love, the compromise to remain relevant versus being true to what I love blurred the lines between spontaneous authenticity and deliberated expression.

    It is the need for understanding that has been my fuel through life, but it is my expectation of understanding that has often been my undoing. There were many times when I felt a joyful liberation at what I thought was my soul unfurling, only to realise that it was unravelling instead. Life has indeed been one long soliloquy, but without an audience. If not for the fool in me, I would have abandoned this obstinacy of expression by now.

    Much of me aches to recede and grow silent. If only I could kill that obstinacy within.

  • Collective guilt, collective malice

    Collective guilt, collective malice

    One of the trappings of the victim head space is that it convinces us to surround ourselves with those who will understand why we’re weak, or why we behave badly, because they themselves struggle with similar demons.

    Our need to avoid rejection or to feel validated causes us more harm than good.

    The comfort that we get from that is fleeting, while what is important to us is neglected.

    It’s like placing a band aid over a festering wound to prevent chafing.

    It may offer a very brief comfort, but the wound eventually turns septic and results in long term pain.

    It’s for this reason that we avoid sincere advisors who push us to get out of the rut that we’re in, while polarising towards those who pacify us about being in that rut because they’re so understanding.

    That’s how we surround ourselves with those who share our shortcomings and our excuses, while we convince ourselves that we found our tribe.

    Sins are not sinful because it carries with it the threat of damnation or divine punishment. They’re sinful because they’re an injustice against our soul.

    An injustice against ourselves results in us treating others unjustly.

    Virtues become sins when applied maliciously or excessively, and sins can be received as a virtue when it uplifts with kindness more than the harshness of religiosity can achieve.

    If we’re not careful, we’ll celebrate our virtues because it is supported by those who are equally distracted by their self-praise, while harming others because of our arrogance in worship.

    How often hasn’t overt worship been the safe space for abusers and oppressors, while the meek pray silently in the darkness?

    Be mindful of who you surround yourself with, and what calibre of advisors you seek.

    Otherwise, you may end up destroying yourself while feeling like it was your destiny not to find happiness.

    It always starts with you.

  • Dream a little dream…

    Dream a little dream…

    In a world of cynics, it’s easy to lose sight of the power that you have to turn your dreams into reality.

    Your efforts become more daunting when faced with an endless barrage of naysayers who only see your potential through their own fears.

    Sincere advisors are often driven by fear, and thus focus on protecting you from their fears of what failure may bring.

    So you slowly give up on your dream as a fantasy, while using its promise as fuel to cope with your reality.

    When you maintain clear boundaries between the two, you convince yourself that dreaming is an irresponsible indulgence of youth, while reality is for adulting.

    Without meaning to, you adopted the fears of those around you, and measured your success by how much you could exceed their expectations within the frame of fear that they painted for you.

    Beauty is lost, endearments become fickle expressions of lightness, and death becomes the morbid milestone by which you gauge how much capacity you will need to keep going.

    All this because you believed others when they disbelieved in you.

    Your dreams are yours to abandon, or yours to claim.

    But if you’re trying to claim a dream that is intricately woven around the presence of another, brace yourself for the anguish that accompanies a lifetime of trying to convince them that achieving your dream is possible, when the events of their life convinced them not to try.

    Dream with abandon, and live with courage.

    If you don’t, the regret will be yours to court, and dreaming will become a cynical taunt that feels like a nightmare.

  • A brain dump

    A brain dump

    Optimism is not always enough. It helps, but sometimes, I just want things to go easy for a bit. If I knew that a single moment of trusting someone could lead to a lifetime of struggle, I would not have been so trusting, or at least not so generous with my trust.

    But spilled milk and water under bridges offer no comfort. They only offer resolve. The resolve to move on rather than to stare pointlessly at the mishaps of my life. So I move on, each time with hope and optimism, each time having the wind knocked out of my sails, constantly reminded of how much easier it would be if only…if only they played their part..or they appreciated what they had…or they gave more and didn’t just take all the time…or…if only they honoured their trust, as much as I try to honour mine.

    But that’s when I’m reminded of the poison of self-pity. That loathsome indulgence of focusing on how bad I have it, while growing bitter at those who consciously and unknowingly contribute towards my straitened state. Sometimes deliberately, but most times obliviously.

    The trials of life are visited on those who are most aware of the human struggle of those around them. It compels one to be more gracious, more understanding, and more forgiving towards the shortcomings of those who do not do their fair share in our lives. But principle dictates that we do not abandon our station because in so doing, we contribute towards that very condition of theirs that subsequently weighs us down. That’s how we become part of the problem, when we abandon the burden of being part of the solution.

    The relentless charge of life felt exciting in youth, but exhausting in my later years. There are days when I feel hopeful and passionate, with purpose and ambition. And there are days when I feel like remembering to hydrate is a life-sucking chore. The only thing that changes between the two is my indulgence in self-pity, or in my fixation on what is owed to me.

    At such times, I remind myself that this world was created for respite, not for justice. What we give, will rarely be received in equal measure. Therefore, we must find a joy other than the expression of gratitude, or reciprocation, if we hope to sustain the very essence that breathes life into our waking hours.

    It is the gratitude of who I am that I lose sight of, before the challenges begin to take their toll on me. I’m most weighed down when I look longingly at a significant other, waiting for a sign of sincere gratitude for, or at the least, understanding of what it takes for me to persevere beyond what has already transpired in my life. It is that pause for such validation that begins the slip into that soulless space of ingratitude, and of being left feeling wanting after exhausting my spirit in the service of those around me.

    I think death will approach when picking myself up from that space will feel like a trial too many, or an investment too daunting in hope that is forever fleeting. On the balance, I am human, and I am needy of that balance that is only found in being appreciated by another. Not by any other, but by one who sees me, and not the tokens of who I am. One who sees the scars and bruises that tear at my being, each time I rise to face another round of brutal conflict with my demons, and the demons of those around me. It is only the loving gaze of one who sees all this of me, and more, that will ever set the scales in balance for this life to feel like a trial worth overcoming.

    In the absence of such an embrace, it all feels dutifully empty. Without purpose beyond the belief that there is purpose in it. And the only motivation to persevere being the belief in the value of what I wish to create. Not even for the awaiting reward of what I’m doing. Because, if I believe the promise of my Lord to be true, to be rewarded for even an atom’s worth of good that I may do, then doing it with the reward in mind would be doubting the promise of my Lord.

    I therefore act with conviction when I’m grateful for my ability to create value in the lives of those I meet, knowing that the One who blessed me with this ability, is more generous than any reward that I may expect in return.

    Perhaps this is the reminder that I need to push on when I feel weighed down. It is the transactional life that steals our passion long before the trial itself. I must take more time to reflect on how transactional my life has become.

  • 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.

  • You can’t wish away your struggle

    You can’t wish away your struggle

    Wishing it’s a sunny day when it’s raining is not going to make the sun come out.

    Therefore, leaving your umbrella behind is an act of foolishness, not optimism.

    A positive mindset can often lead us into delusional states.

    When our overbearing sense of deliberate positivity doesn’t produce results, it crushes our spirit even more than before we started.

    Keep it real.

    Positivity is about focusing on opportunities, not about wishing away reality.

    Whispering to the universe, if not followed by real and decisive action, will remain nothing more than a whisper.

    Positivity doesn’t only attract positivity, it also attracts the negative ones who are in need of positivity.

    If you don’t recognise this, you’ll struggle to reconcile why your efforts at being positive still yield negative results.

    You attract what others need, not what you are.

    If nothing else, let that be the grounding point for your sanity.

  • My echo chamber

    My echo chamber

    For what feels like an eternity, I’ve been grappling with whether I have anything of substance to share beyond my first novel. Will it be an indulgent rant of self-pity, or will it honour the human struggle? Am I invested in it the way I was with the first novel? Or is the tedious repetition of adult themes in my life that inspires my writing just too much adulting for most who encounter its narrative?

    Such thoughts have plagued me for a long time now. Some inspired by genuine self-doubt, but most spawned by the weight of a colourful life that most could not bear. Thinking aloud reinforces the imposter syndrome, and speaking into a void reminds me that I’m my only echo chamber.

    Being cryptic is a natural disposition. A disposition that I expended every effort in my life to decode so that I could convey a coherent thought to any who would listen. My efforts appear to have resulted in an over achievement. Where once my challenge was in articulating my thoughts, I now stand accused of communicating in ways that are too complex. In my efforts to be as succinct as possible, it seems I’ve grown too dense in a single expression to the point of fatigue for the listener.

    Balance between the two is what I’ve sought through my writing. Being able to read within the perceived mindset of the reader has offered me the opportunity to develop depth to my echo chamber. But, it’s still my echo chamber, manned by me, and occupied by none else. My objectivity is therefore subjective, and my perspective unreliable.

    Therefore, I must dig deep into any snippet of feedback that I receive, trying to understand what is meant in the restrained or lethargic feedback that is spilled, almost hesitantly, as if a burden. Analysing and unpacking, decrypting and translating, finally leaving me with a glimpse of the truth behind the vague words offered as a description of how my writing may have been experienced. But I’m painfully aware that it’s still my echo chamber, manned only by me. Therefore none of its contemplations provide certainty or confidence. It only provides entry to yet another rabbit hole of doubt and over thinking.

    Will I write again? I think I may. Will it be more impactful than the first attempt? I’m not sure. But I’m curious to know. And that curiosity can be satisfied in one way only. I must write, and I must share. My echo chamber is an indulgence of self-pity that holds little value and no promise.

    The uncertainty of life must be celebrated, if not honoured. Without it, we’d be complacent beings disconnected from our souls, and each other. It is our collective fears that create the greatest moments of connectedness when we rise above those uncertainties, rather than surrendering to it.

    The answer, I guess, is clear. I should (must?) not abandon my story now. There is still much to be told, and if I truly believe that it is more important to tell my story than it is for my story to be heard, then it’s clear that the sequel to my novel is not to be doubted. Instead, it must be embraced with more grit and tenacity than the first.

    I may not have a soul to honour in the sequel, but I do have a narrator to respect, if not appreciate. This is more difficult than honouring another. It demands that I find that elusive balance between confidence and conceit, or self-worth and arrogance. In a world that defines the victim as the hero and the critical thinker as the oppressor, finding balance grows ever more elusive.

  • That empty bench…

    That empty bench…

    The saddest scene for me has always been the abandoned park bench.

    It echoes with profound intensity the pervasive isolation that too many experience, but too few reveal.

    There is a shame that is carried upon the broken wings of abandonment that anchors us in that space between wanting to create beauty in this world, while believing that it will always be unreachable for ourselves.

    So we birth the martyr within, presenting it as the selfless lover without.

    Being sure to distract others with affection, so that no one notices how achingly we stare at those empty benches.

    Those benches that once bore the hopes and dreams of togetherness.

    Those benches that once were claimed as sacred spaces.

    Those benches that remain available to the next loving embrace between its arms, knowing that once the lovers move on, it will remain, rooted to that spot, waiting to be embraced and abandoned, again.

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