Moments of pause used to offer a breather, but of late, it has smothered the breath within. A calm mind is sometimes drawn towards contemplating the deeper anguish of life after the busyness of it all comfortably protected me from focusing on the urgency of the demands of the day. Urgency became my standard pace, and exhaustion my normal moments of simple rest.
I rarely write about the madness these days. The baseline of normality has shifted from euphoric highs and overwhelming lows to subtle ebbs and tranquil flows. Taking it in my stride, going with the flow, being mindful about the present moment. It all offers peace from distractedness, but it has also dulled the spirit that once looked forward to the future. That spirit has grown to be a companion lost to the winds of turmoil that has caressed my life since little.
Material comfort, when distilled to its primal need, serves as nothing more than the ability to distance myself from the threat of homelessness or abject poverty. The comfort slowly becomes the objective, and the purpose is lost, until unexpected moments of tribulation that accompany a quiet streak of no revenue reminds me once more that I am only a few bills away from living hard.
The frequency with which that cycle has recurred has done nothing to convince me of the probability of rising above it each time it occurs. Life has lost its sweetness. Optimism has been replaced by duty. Accomplishment feels like a dodged bullet. Fulfilment is what I take from that which resonates with my aspirations, and everything feels mechanical.
Where to from here? Where to from the point of having your own space in relative peace, but are drawn into the strife and toil of the lives of those who have rights over you? Their fixation on loss or failure becomes your burden for support and service to compensate for what they do not contribute because of their sincerely distorted perspective of what is worthy of investing preciously limited energy. More than this, their distasteful view of who deserves such investment.
The selfish soul is a bitter one convinced of its magnanimous nature. It is one who dismisses all good because of one evil. It is one who blames their heritage for their inaction, and their inaction is their cry for sympathy. The selfish soul destroys those who support them in times of need, and discards them in times of abundance. Fixated on their struggle with themselves, they’ve convinced themselves that they’re struggling against a cruel world instead.
Believing in the promise of beauty fans the rage of the ugly that denies that beauty. My conviction in that beauty scalds me mercilessly as I challenge the rage that is the mask of the bitter looking to protect themselves from a betrayal that has long since passed. It turns me into the token of fear that threatens to reveal their vulnerability as I persist in encouraging them to see in them what I always saw. But that assumes that they see me. They don’t.
When there is nothing to live for and nothing to die for, peace becomes a lie, and hope a tormentor.







