Stepping back and taking stock requires more than just an arrest of the ego.
It requires a desire to return to a point of sincerity and authenticity in our lives when we were filled with hope about the future, after finding ourselves filled with a longing for the past instead.
Arresting the ego becomes easier if we believe that what we stand to gain is more valuable than having to swallow our pride.
But sometimes, pride is all that defines us.
If you find yourself in that space, know that you’ve abandoned your true self in favour of how you wish to be perceived by others.
Sometimes, pride pushes us to follow through on a bad decision because it sucks to give our enemies something to mock us about.
You know what sucks more?
Living a crappy life because you didn’t want to give your enemies a single moment to mock a bad decision.
Own Your Shit. Own Your Life.
#hope #expectation #sincerity #selfworth #selflove #selfawareness #selfrespect #mindfulness #inspiration #pride #egosystem #ego #takingstock #reflection #mentalhealth #mentalhealthawareness #mentalhealthrecovery
Category: Random Thoughts
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Take stock, and reconnect
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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.
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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.
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A brain dump
My inclination to write within the context of a universal experience feels insincere and superficial at times. To want to write at all feels like a self indulgent rant or feathering of my own cap. I’ve abandoned more manuscripts and drafts of old manuscripts these past few weeks than I have all my life.
The need to recede grows stronger still. My flowery language weighs down in my efforts to express myself lightly. A fresh perspective is elusive in the midst of an old scene. Every effort results only in a new sense of the same old, but no new insights into old demons.
To be is not as simple as it seems. It demands so much within and without that it commands being, long before it allows me to just be. The shards of madness accumulate as I contemplate the value of it all. Seeing beyond the facade is a painful truth that most would rather disguise. It’s that internalised scene of old demons that prevent new perspectives from shaping. It is the same vantage point that denies affection from those who see our demons as trophies of our humanness.
The opinions of others have no bearing when we’re convinced that they don’t see what we see. But, even this assumes that our vision is perfect, and our perspectives perfectly informed. Therefore, it must be shame that shades our eyes from the brightness of beauty when the darkness is the only familiarity that we know. Especially when those opinions offer hope when we hope to hold on to the darkness instead.
The need to expel the clutter from my head is increasing in frequency. Sometimes it’s a healthy release. Sometimes, it creates a shape and form for that which I would rather not have visible. But escapism has never served me well, so brain dumps serve to recalibrate my focus when focus itself appears to be elusive. It’s the counter-intuitive act of being dishevelled in my thoughts in the hope of finding a groomed sanity.
The four seasons experienced this morning, coupled with tonight’s full moon, resonate with the fluidity of my existence today. Perhaps the tides will bring with it some newfound signs of peace, or serenity. I’m beginning to find a distinct difference between the two.
One thought that won’t leave me is based on something I wrote in the darkness of late. In contemplating the nature of pain, I stumbled upon the realisation that pain is nothing. It’s nothing where we once had something. It’s the absence of a joy we once had, but has since departed. It, in itself, is not a thing. It is only present in the absence of that which offers us peace…if not serenity. It’s not possible to make sense of nothing. Hence the pain of having nothing after once having had so much.
Such ramblings continue to tumble out of my mindlessness as I reevaluate everything I once evaluated to be true. There is much that others take for granted but of which I have yet to taste. Giving up on what I need or want has been a constant in my life. But giving up on duty is a luxury that I don’t have. Fixating on what was given up versus what cannot be abandoned has never led to any enlightened spaces. Only self-pity or a toxic sense of entitlement.
To feel entitled isn’t as vapid as it may appear. Beneath such entitlement still roams the misguided notion that there is a self-worth that must be honoured by others. Whether true or not, social contracts of the like are only as valid as the willing subscription of those party to it. Such subscription has grown to define the value of many, both in its presence by building pedestals for the meek, and in its absence by destroying pedestals of the bold.
Sanity roams freely in a neighbouring state.
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A brain dump
I need to return to my self. When the feeling of being adrift and the mental fog merge, the road ahead appears as a romantic setting filled with intrigue and adventure, but little answers. In seeking such answers, I may find new paths and new passions, but such a journey cannot be undertaken when chained to the present.
The yokes must first be dismantled before the anchors lifted. The past is of no consequence except for its gifts that continue to colour the present moment. Wishing it away has never resulted in anything more than regret or escapism. Embracing it, despite most often being a cold and uncomfortable embrace, has always offered the opportunity to warm up to it, before moving beyond it.
There appears to be wisdom in learning to love the challenges I face, rather than spurning their roots. I lost myself many times in the distractions that result from a fixation on its roots, often questioning the value of my contribution towards countering the anticipated outcomes that now weigh on my shoulders as yokes of past decisions. Those contributions, when focused on with regret, grew larger than my strength to prevail beyond it, turning it into a living monument that slowly defined my sense of self. Thus I lost myself to moments long gone, and in investments long since diminished in value.
In returning to my self, I must embrace the beauty of my being that afforded me the conviction to contribute towards that which held no promise beyond that moment, but whose hope carried me to see dreams beyond the impossible that I faced. Despite not having achieved those dreams, its descendents have spawned new paths that otherwise would have remained concealed, but importantly, have eliminated any reason to question myself later had I held back in my contribution towards what I hoped to achieve.
Speaking cryptically is a game that tests my resolve between unbridled rage at the world, and quiet contemplation of my right to rage. Rage is only needed when I refuse to embrace the naivety and convictions that encouraged my contribution towards that which I knew carried the promise of betrayal as much as it carried the hope of joy. Denying my contribution to justify my rage would therefore be as hypocritical as the ones who betrayed my efforts because they saw their vulnerability as a weakness to be condemned, and therefore preemptively judged me to be what they expected of me, rather than what I offered in truth.
There’s a harshness that creeps in when we see our tenderness as weakness, rather than seeing it as a proclamation of our ability to remain human in a calloused world. It’s that same harshness that defines the tone with which we receive the tenderness in others. When we assume their tenderness to be a drain on our strength, we lose the benefit of seeing in them the gentleness that we must harbour in us to avoid inviting the harshness of the world into the cavities of our souls. Those cavities, when seen as failings or as evidence of inadequacy, become sources of shame, rather than opportunities to create the joy and the beauty that they await.
Joy and beauty would have remained elusive to my dysfunctional being had I restrained myself when common sense dictated such restraint. It was through abandoning common sense that I departed from the trajectory that honoured the emotionless heritage that had defined my world up to that point. It has always been my ability to dream of being more than I ever had a right to claim that I found myself among beauty and fulfilment that would otherwise have remained foreign to my experience of this world.
It is in my rejection of what others believed to be true about me that I found myself. It was in that rejection that I revealed their rejection of themselves in favour of their need to belong to their soured legacies. It is in that rejection that I found the most beautiful of souls with whom to share sacred moments and even bigger dreams. Without that rejection, I would have been as dejected as many of the vapid ones who spend their lives courting the validation of those who invalidated them to begin with. Seeing the hollowness in their eyes, it was my rejection of such a hollow existence for myself that I created space for kindred souls to create in me what the legacy of my lineage would never have been able to endow.
Thus, it was rejection that guided me to me. It was choosing what I did not want for myself, without waiting for the arrival of common sense, that allowed me to create space for what I hoped to experience, and who I hoped to embrace. And the embrace that I found through such rejection outweighs the accumulated benefit of all the validations that I could have courted instead.
Life has a way of meandering towards that which we desire most, but through paths that often defy logic while priming us for the state we must achieve if we hope to have the capacity to embrace what it is that we want. By respecting the fears that define the efforts of those around us, we limit ourselves to achieving only a shadow of their achievements, because we would never discover the potential that we hold within. Sometimes it’s more important to focus on what we need to reject, than applying ourselves towards that which we hope to achieve. It demands a trust in the harmony of life that exceeds any balance that we may be able to consciously extract from such a flow. Fighting the rapids is often the least effective way to navigate through tough times. Perhaps in that is the wisdom that I need to secure my way beyond this torrential period of my life.
Regardless of which way it goes, I am clear about the path that I choose to pursue through the foggy road that lies ahead. And the companion to accompany me on that journey will reveal themselves when the space I create meets the path that they’re on. Until then, the journey holds the promise of many beautiful revelations, akin to the revelations that revealed the possibility of being more than I ever thought possible for a man whose heritage denied anything beyond mediocrity or common sense.
Legacies are only to be honoured if they honour the truth of who we are. Discovering that truth is therefore only possible when we see in ourselves the possibility of the future, rather than remaining loyal to the inheritance of the past.
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13 Lessons from 2020
Perhaps it is too soon to count the lessons, but these themes are pretty consistent so far. I figured, given what a year it’s been, I may as well stick to the number 13 to keep aligned with the ominous nature of this year.
Here goes my 13 lessons from 2020 thus far. I expect it to only get more colourful as the final quarter of the year works its way through the digestive tract of time.
1. Everyone became an empath
Social media has been flooded with self-proclaimed empaths. The fascinating part for me is always how many of those who claim to be empaths are bitter at the world, rather than empathetic about why it is in the state that it is. More interestingly, I find it curious to see how anyone who suddenly realised that a gut feeling turned out to be true suddenly becomes an empath that can accurately read the emotional disposition of anyone that saunters across their path. My gut feeling suggests that there is something amiss in all of this. Besides, we’re all empaths by default. It simply varies by degrees of self-awareness.
2. Kal ho na ho means different things to different people
For the uninitiated into the Bollywood sphere, roughly translated, it means that tomorrow is not guaranteed. Like the empaths, this is another claim that is brandied about by the masses who proclaim to be living their best life, or doing what demands courage because tomorrow is not guaranteed. Sadly though, many embrace this concept from a position of fear, rather than hope. Thus, the non-guarantee of tomorrow leads many to hold on to the fear that they court today, because a familiar pain is more comforting than a fragile joy. Much is lost in the process of claiming today while believing that we’re not waiting for tomorrow, not realising that it is precisely the hope that tomorrow holds that should be subduing the fears of today. It’s complicated.
3. Giving it your best shot doesn’t guarantee success
The massive impact to small businesses and employment opportunities globally proves that it’s not always about your best shot. Sometimes, being amazing doesn’t guarantee an audience, or an income. When we stubbornly persist in approaching human value with a capitalistic mindset, we will continue to diminsh the value of the human contribution in the absence of its economic viability. Therefore, your best shot is only your best shot if economic viability is prioritised above your contribution to humanity. And yeah, I may be projecting my personal experiences in this regard given my line of work. It’s 2020, so I’m sure it’s allowed.
4. Pervasive ignorance still trumps collective wisdom
The toilet roll saga, followed by the poor bats who apparently spawned a synthetic patented virus, followed by the debates about the effectiveness of social distancing, mask-wearing, and so much more, all confirm that there is no collective wisdom in a severely fractured human race. Collective wisdom is only possible in the presence of a collective value system. If nothing else, given the massive negative shifts regarding economic parity, or human dignity between the wealthy and the poor, it’s pretty much confirmed that collective wisdom is class-based survival and profiteering and not wisdom at all.
5. Love doesn’t always triumph over fear
Fear, by far, still rates as the key ingredient to making important decisions. The fear of hope is echoed in the statements of hope. The victim-hood is evident in the proclamations of the victims who remain defined by their moments of oppression. And of course, we fight fear with fear by being fearful of the fear of what the rest of this year holds. In all of this, there are few who realise that they need to just be, without a need to proclaim their love or hope or fear about what life holds true for them. But to just be who they are despite the ravages of the time in which we live. If we could call it living. And, of course, those who chose to love in the face of fear will realise that their love was often only enough to sustain their own sanity, but not enough to subdue the fear in others. How may are spurned for diminishing the validity of the fear of another when they respond with love instead?
6. Hope is not always the opposite of fear
One of the greatest tragedies is when we compete in our efforts to proclaim our struggles to be greater than that of others. It’s all relative. What we proclaim as hope to rise above where we’re at is often just fear looking for validation. Proclaiming our struggles to the world rarely provides any material relief from those struggles. So when we convince ourselves that hope looks like a vocal stand against fear, we need to consider if we’re being truthful to ourselves, or are we just pacifying our conscience.
7. Collective struggles don’t always unite people
Oh boy…where to even start with this one. Bigotry in all domains has intensified rather than subsided. The in-fighting in many communities far outweigh the collective efforts to lift the burdens from the most vulnerable in those communities. And this plays out globally. Whether first or third world, rich or poor, theist or atheist, the reports of selfless human contribution have been rare and exceptional, and most certainly not the norm. Even in finding cures we’ve seen the opportunism of the elite trump over any efforts to serve with compassion before profits. All puns intended.
8. Soul mates don’t always connect
Under such straitened circumstances, the overwhelming burden of a life under duress has dulled many a romantic heart, and subdued many a giving spirit. When overwhelmed with the threat of a never-ending oppression, survival often means sacrifice of what is important in favour of what is urgent. When fear drives our decisions, finding a balance between the two is near impossible , and thus, we consider soul food a luxury when life itself feels like a threat to our sanity. Connecting with anyone, let alone your soul mate, then becomes a struggle when holding on to sanity feels like finding love is a luxury. If only we’d realise that sanity becomes irrelevant when love breathes comfort into our anguished hearts.
9. What is valued is not always what is cherished
Continuing the theme of important versus urgent, comforting each other begins to appear as a luxury or an unaffordable indulgence when we look to take care of ourselves first because we lost any reason to trust that we will be taken care of. Sometimes we do this because we believe that we need to save others from the persecution of our lives. Hence, we see what we value as being inconsequential to the existential threats that we face. Again, survival mode triumphs over our humanness, and empathy is replaced by utility.
10. Humanity still places priority over materialism compared to compassion
It’s only important if it can be monetised. Of course, this is only true in our efforts to put food on the table, but is vehemently denied in our free posts on social media. Perhaps our hypocrisy as a race of humans is most visible in our proclamation of the dearness that we place on the hearts we hope to touch or heal, but ignore such value the moment profit margins must be maintained. If lock down has taught me anything, it is that there is an absurdity in our belief that essential services are only essential if there is a way to fund it. Suddenly, we suspended our ability to produce because someone decided to suspend the economic system. Rather than question the merits of the economic system, we choose to question the value of our contribution in the absence of such economic reward.
11. Empathy is absent in religious structures and spiritual circles
The most religious and the most spiritual have shown a disdain for compassion or empathy. They have demonised non-compliance and enforced ritual instead. 2020 has revealed the true merit of the self-proclaimed custodians of religious superiority across all religions. There is not a single major world religion that has risen above the others in their efforts to place the human before the doctrine. But, wasn’t the doctrine established because of the frailty of the human to begin with? I think we speak on behalf of our gods when we need to be perceived as spiritually superior when we lack confidence in our ability to influence by our conduct. Of course, there is also that thing of funding that turns religion into business.
12. Benefit of the doubt still doesn’t get the benefit of the doubt
The irony is morbidly entertaining when we consider that we doubt those who request the benefit of the doubt. This is, again, most prominent in the economic structures that govern everything we cherish as human beings, with credit histories meaning nothing in the face of protecting profits. Financial institutions the world over have insisted on claiming interest and extending the life of contracts in a show of compassion. However, they were very careful in ensuring not to lose a cent in income, further extending the indebtedness of the vulnerable. What appears to be a short term relief only turns out to be a longer term slavery. Compassion is not compassion if it only extends the suffering rather than alleviates it.
13. Fear, and not hope, still drives most people’s life decisions
With the onslaught continuing, even those who throw caution to the wind do so because they fear being subdued for much longer. It’s our belief in our impotence to change things that we willingly surrender to it without further effort or protest. But, to save face, we must present it as a bold step against oppression or blind following, rather than to reveal the vulnerability of our fears that we harbour within. Our need to appear bold or courageous or significant immediately undermines any merits to such claims. Thus, if nothing else, 2020 is revealing the true calibre of who we are, and we have been found to be lacking in almost every sphere of our lives.
Final thoughts
Despite the morbidity and the struggles that have saturated the lives of the majority during a year of unprecedented imbalance in nature, the human spirit continues to struggle on. However, for the most part, it has intensified the nature of who we were before this pandemic hit. Those who were selfish and bitter intensified their rage and self-serving ways, while those given to servitude increased their sacrifices, often at great personal expense.
The new normal that many are waiting for will turn out to not much more than a clearer picture with more blatant evidence of the normal that always was. But, because so many were oblivious to it in their cocoons of distraction, it will be experienced as a whole new world after Covid-19. Sadly, there are much greater tragedies in the world that have been unfolding, and continue to unfold with impacts that dwarf the statistics claimed by Covid-19, and those will continue to to remain below the line of sight of the consciousness of the collective, because as we’ve seen, collective wisdom is a myth, and empathy is an indulgence of victim-hood.
There is no new normal. Only a new realisation of what was always wrong with the world as we know it. Will this result in a shift towards the resolve needed to fundamentally improve the human condition, or will profiteering and individual gain continue to contaminate our efforts in our pursuit of the peace that everyone claims to be striving for?
The cynic in me suggests that it will be business-as-usual for the next few generations. I pray that I am proven wrong.
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Pursuit of servitude
I once asked myself a simple question when I left corporate to follow a new path. What do you do when you’re done with the world, but the world is not done with you? The two and a bit years that followed answered this question many times over, each time with an intensity greater than the last.
The answer appears to be very different from what I was expecting. Initially, I assumed that perhaps the world I thought I was done with was not my world at all. And so I set out to create the world, my world, that I thought was truer to my purpose in life.
Yet, here I am, contemplating again if this is really the world that I wanted to create for myself. When faced with the evidence of the sum total of my efforts, there are two ways in which I could respond. I could be generous and assume that I am still learning and therefore falling short of my goals is an inevitable part of that journey. Or, I could be brutally honest and recognise that perhaps my assumption of being able to claim a world for myself was born in arrogance.
The question that therefore needs to answered is not what to do with the world that may be done with me, but rather, what will it take to recognise my place in this world that is larger than I’ll ever be?
To know my place has always been the greatest mystery. There’s a combination of understanding who I am and what purpose I serve to others that continues to escape me. On both counts. My understanding of myself remains a well kept secret, and as for my purpose, I’ve always pursued roles of servitude. Therefore, any consideration beyond that continues to be a mystery.
My world must therefore be defined by that which demands my contribution. The moment I claim a recompense, I outstay my welcome and violate my purpose. The end result will therefore be inevitably unpleasant. Perhaps the question that I’ve been asking is the wrong question.
But, the answer lies in asking the right question. And if peace is associated with that answer, then it stands to reason that peace, along with my understanding of my place in that world, will continue to be an answer whose question I have yet to grasp.
Cryptic thoughts for a cryptic life. And peace has no part in it.
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A Brain Dump
The short posts don’t allow for a meaningful purge of what rumbles inside my head. And there’s a lot of rumbling this morning. Having finally published my novel, the reactions I’ve noted along with the assumptions that people make about my reasons for doing so, are entertaining. I’ve always taken a morbid pleasure from watching people sum me up incorrectly, or assume to know what drives me. I barely know myself, so it’s highly improbable that anyone else will know either.
Despite my efforts at explaining myself, sharing my passion, living out loud, and scribbling my thoughts in digital ink for any passerby to read, I still remain a well-kept secret. A colourful life such as mine is intimidating for many to grasp. It’s much easier for them to find random points of entertainment instead. Of that, there is an unlimited supply.
However, it only serves to be morbidly entertaining if the ones who are peering in have no significance in my life. What then when one held dear takes a closer look and feels afraid? Those are the moments when the introspection shifts from morbid curiosity to flirting with regret. Being trusting has earned me more struggles than deliberate betrayals ever did.
When philosophy teases us, we play with words that talk of the strength of character of those most burdened by the trials of life, but when reality demands that we embrace them, we recede from fear of contamination. Sometimes, we recede from fear of feeling burdened by them. But from afar, from a safe distance, we admire and celebrate their resilience, as long as they keep their resilience to themselves.
The irony of society is that it will be more inclined to offer itself to one who appears untarnished so that it may experience the process of being tarnished by the experiences of life with them, rather than to revel in the joy of one who has already been polished by what once tarnished them. It’s the equivalent of wanting to marry a virgin, but hoping to have the sexual experience of a seasoned whore, and then realising that the whore may be more pleasurable, but looking for one who is still virginal in demeanour. We really are an entertaining bunch, aren’t we?
Sometimes it seems like we’re hypocritical in our approach to establishing or respecting respectable standards, but that hypocrisy is easily defended when such standards become our own to defend. Fear of the future has tainted many well-meaning men, and suspicion has destroyed many loves before they were allowed to bloom.
Words have been elusive, except in unpredictable bursts of late. The topics have been revealing, teasing my soul and flirting with my audience, but largely unfulfilled either way. Fulfilment continues to be a slithery one. Testing everything that I assumed to be true, and teasing it with new experiences and emotions that have long been dismissed as taunts of fairy tales.
Poetry has been a bipolar friend. Sometimes testing my skill at articulating the melody of my mindlessness, and at other times distorting my words to reflect the angst that defines my madness. Between mindlessness and madness, love is cradled in a delicate hammock, ready to tip over at the slightest sway, but even in its tipping over, offering laughter and joy in unexpected waves of delight that distract me from the sand in my face.
The ambivalence of life digs ever deeper. Joys grow more intense with each ravaging of happiness that passes, only to be followed by yet another crescendo of joy. Each time, the crescendo exceeds the previous pitch, creating an ever-deepening cavern into which to plunge when the joy is tainted. From depths of despair to wings of angels, peace is elusive. But peace fades from want in the presence of such joy. If only the joy would stay, perhaps then it will inspire a peaceful serenade of a life waiting to be indulged in hues yet to be seen.
An interesting life leaves a kaleidoscope of scars that form beautiful patterns in the stars, as we imagine constellations of soulful connections in spaces that remain empty and lifeless, if not for the gaze of the beloved into that realm. My vocabulary fails me much. Yet another double-edged dagger, fulfilling my need to articulate more closely what my heart yearns for, yet denying me attachment due to my increasingly complex expression in my efforts to be understood. Finding the most articulate words to describe in the smallest phrases has birthed the epitome of sophistication through minimalism. Only such sophistication serves no good end in the absence of one who seeks to understand, or heaven forbid, to embrace.
A dump indeed, this has been…but not of the brain, and more of the heart. A strange encounter.
