Tag: courage

  • The Lonely Path

    The Lonely Path

    There is comfort in being in a space unoccupied by others. The plague of clichés and the clutter of egos take up residence in crowded spaces. Blending into the crowd always threatened my sanity. Living up to an expectation set against a standard that I don’t subscribe to will always result in disappointment for the one that holds such expectation. Sadly, the fulfilment of our expectations defines the sense of significance for too many.

    A simple but defining realisation dawned on me in recent months. There is a conflict of sentiment in encouraging others to own their life. To pursue a path that is unique to what they yearn to see realised in this world places a burden on their shoulders that most are unwilling to bear. It’s much easier to talk about the change that is needed but to recede from the battlefield when the time to act arrives is even easier. Leading the charge against complacency is never a popular role to take.

    Spectators are the armchair critics of life. The back seat drivers, or the wall flowers. They observe the most, analyse the most, criticise the most, and do the least. But their time spent gathering information about everything that is wrong positions them well to be the first to point out the shortcomings of those that choose to go to battle. Through nothing more than the momentum contained in their numbers, they become the opinion makers and the advisors, much like the politicians that send everyone else’s children to fight wars that are created around boardroom tables.

    The odds are stacked against the ones that set out to make things better. Gaining critical mass for positive change amongst a mass of critics is beyond daunting. It requires a healthy dose of tenacity, resilience, and a dollop of manipulation. The populist leader however chooses to have a healthy dose of manipulation and nothing more. Offer incremental change and deliver only a fraction of it, and the history books will celebrate you for generations to come. All you need to do is give people reason to believe that they were part of a movement that made them feel better about not making progress in life, and then release them to go back into the dreary cycle of their lives.

    It’s easy to see why the path of leadership, authentic leadership is a lonely one, especially when you consider that leading does not require a vocal following. It doesn’t even require a conscious one. I once heard that the definition of leadership is to do more than is expected of you. This makes so many sincere contributors leaders despite them feeling like nothing more than burden-bearers.

    Step up to take up the slack of the slackers and automatically you take a lead role. Fill the parenting void of absent parents and you become a role model. Assume responsibility for an outcome that everyone needs but no one wishes to own, and you become a rebel. Speak out loud what you know everyone else is thinking but would never utter from fear of inheriting responsibility, and you become the abrasive protestor. The fly in the ointment, or the pain in the butt. Good intention makes no difference. The moment you choose to improve the quality of your life or the life of those around you, prepare to be judged because in stepping up, we automatically make visible those that are sitting down.

    It’s that easy to start out on the lonely path of leadership. Not pseudo-leadership that needs a title or a declaration to be established. True leadership. The one inspired by the struggle of the common man, or the aspiration of the unknown dreamer. That is the lonely path, because if everyone recognised the importance of the change that is needed, change would not be needed. Natural progression would happen without disruption. The human condition would improve as a natural consequence of commonly-held values that are actually valued. But they don’t value the values that they profess to uphold. Unless they are the designated leader, it’s not their job to care.

    So it rests on the shoulders of the restless ones among us. The ones that see the value of progress and can’t rest until it is realised. The ones that see the gaps and fill it with contributions that uplift the weary souls, or the under resourced. The ones who act, in spite of the critics and the knowledge that they will likely be damned before they are appreciated, let alone celebrated. They are the ones on that lonely path. Despite this, they are also the ones that are most likely to stop and offer a hand to the one whose lethargy finally saw them fall foul of the same system that they once coveted.

    Companionship is rare on this path. By implication of their nature, compensating for the selfish embrace of the other is simply a matter of course. Realising that your restlessness is likely to threaten rather than attract the ones that it is intended to uplift, living a life of restrained expression becomes second nature. The smile that never reaches the eyes, or the embrace that feels comforting but is rarely reciprocated are easily overlooked in the haste that accompanies the indulgence of the distracted.

    [This is an incomplete thought process…]

  • Fleeting Thoughts (VII)

    Fleeting Thoughts (VII)

    A therapeutic release of clutter is one in which there is no need to string together coherent thoughts.

    Coherent thoughts dictate a concern for what came before, or what needs to come after which reflects the earnestness of life.

    Life itself does not afford us the indulgence of being inconsequential, or being oblivious to consequence.

    Those seemingly oblivious to consequence are simply focused on outcomes that differ with what we may consider important.

    Perspective is what you gain when you pay attention to what is not being said.

    Unspoken words hold more truth than a blatant show of commitment.

    Commitment wanes when expectations are plundered.

    Plundering of the soul occurs when those with whom you’ve invested much reciprocate only obligingly.

    Obligation fills the gaps, but leave the voids untouched.

    Touching yourself deeply holds more hurt and pain than puns of fun.

    Sometimes the fun is not just a pun and instead touches you deeply but only briefly.

    A brief joy is sometimes more painful than a lasting torment.

    Torment is endured when neglect waxes and hope wanes.

    Neglect of others forms the bad habits that ends up with the abuse of ourselves.

    Abuse is an investment in seeking significance, but without the hope.

    Hope is only as relevant as the probability of its fulfilment.

    Fulfilment is elusive for the wayward wanderers because a journey without a destination is simply a life without a home.

    Home is a journey the heart undertakes each time it needs to breathe.

    A breath of air or a breath of sanity is only visited upon the one who sacrificed both in pursuit of either.

    To breathe is to hope in the moment that comes next. It is a statement of defiance at the heart breaks of the past.

    Heart breaks are bitter sweet. Bitter because of the break, but sweet because of the rarity of the heart that is fragile enough to feel it.

    Fragility is sometimes strength, but only if you realise that it requires courage and a brave soul to expose vulnerability.

    Vulnerability is only preceived as such for one that does not value conviction or sincerity.

    Sincerity is tainted when a fleeting moment defines your entire reality.

    Reality is never real. It is always only ever perceived relative to what we wish to take from it.

    Give or take. We all are both, but only lament one.

  • Emancipation From Mental Slavery

    Emancipation From Mental Slavery

    The first tune that pops into my head when I think of this title is the song from Bob Marley. He sang about the mentality that enslaved us to our captors or colonialist masters, but the emancipation I am reminded of this morning is of a different kind. Over the years I’ve been fortunate enough to engage with people that struggled to break the bonds of a childhood that left them with more emptiness, than it filled them with dreams. What should have been the nurturing of young souls often turns into the imposition of burdens from old souls instead. The reason it was a good fortune to engage with such troubled souls is because many of their struggles resonated with my own.

    Sometimes in finding common ground, some draw on the common toxins that are shared in such a setting to emphasise the need to hold on to their own toxins that they collected through the years. Those trinkets of grief and betrayal convinces us that our worth is limited and defined by the sum total of how our nurturers treated us at times when we were supposed to be innocently adorable. I think at some deep subconscious level, the betrayals experienced during such innocent years convinces many that if they were not worth loving or embracing in that pure state, it cannot be possible to find the love or embrace that they need now that they’ve grown into a contaminated state. Unfortunately this internalised self-loathing is rarely visible to the conscious mind. Years of self-doubt erodes any sense of purpose, and purpose morphs into a desire to protect from a perceived threat that was rendered impotent the moment we achieved a state of material independence. It is one of those rare occasions when materialistic goals are critical to our survival.

    Independence in our material state affords us the opportunity to break the stranglehold that unfulfilled adults had over us up to that point. Sadly though, many that achieve this state of independence would rather use those hard earned tools to exact revenge or demand remorse rather than to break the cycle and invest in a future that kills off the demons of the past. When we desire emancipation from such a dreary beginning, despite our misguided efforts to feed that cycle by convincing ourselves that making them pay is a pursuit of justice, we invite forces into our lives that will cause us to question the value of seeking such justice.

    Assuming that the trials imposed on us during our innocent years were deliberate or conscious efforts by those troubled caregivers is an indulgence of our ego and nothing more. Everyone is fighting for significance, which means that everyone desires a space within which they are appreciated and understood. The fact that we lose faith in humanity to provide us with what we need is why we end up demanding such significance in selfishly destructive ways. Those troubled caregivers were no different. Without realising it, they eroded the faith of the innocents in their care through their selfishly destructive ways of demanding significance from those innocents. And that is how they fed the very same cycle that we all spurn.

    Sometimes, our efforts in breaking those chains that weigh us down bears down on us to near breaking point. Incessant demands from those around us for us to be better than who we thought we were eventually breaks our resolve because our deeply held belief that we’re incapable of more because we deserve less erodes the foothold of courage that brought us to that point. I often wonder how many fail to achieve their goals because when they reached the final stretch, they saw it as the beginning of yet another struggle, rather than the end of the struggle that they set out to overcome. More dreams have been abandoned in giving up in that final stretch that demands the most of us because instead of realising that it is the culmination of a grueling effort that now demands that we finally break ties with what was holding us back, we see it as a demand to let go of what little comfort we have, and instead we recede in favour of familiarity, rather than push ahead into a new reality.

    It is like navigating our way through the maze of life and finally approaching the exit, but instead of heading towards the light, we find the light threatening and instead we turn back to take comfort in the darkness because that is what our eyes have grown accustomed to. Wandering through the maze becomes a life long statement of the struggle of a life less lived, because in that maze there is no shortage of companions that view such valiant efforts to prevail in the darkness as being acts of courage and strength of the human spirit. Contending with self-imposed burdens that resonate with equally troubled souls offers more comfort and inclusion than pursuing a life of purpose that sets us apart from the crowd.

    Everyone wants to be celebrated, and revered, but only a few are willing to exit that maze and embrace a new enlightened reality. It is for this reason that the bulk of human effort is spent in mastering the game rules that others have defined, rather than forging our own new path through this world. Emancipation comes when we see ourselves for who we are, and not for how others have defined us to be. It arrives without pomp and splendour, or festive celebrations. It arrives quietly in moments when we seek it, but expect it to appear in a form that we desire it to be. Emancipation is that flicker of hope that we choose to grasp when stepping back is easier. It is that light that threatens to kill the being that we fought to protect all our lives, while demanding that we embrace vulnerability with the promise of growth and inspiration.

    Emancipation is achieved when we see more value in what we desire than the value that the familiarity of the past offers instead. Courage is therefore the sibling of cowardliness, because both appear to be valiant efforts of a brave soul, but the former is an obstinate challenge to complacency, while the latter embellishes fear with loud statements of rebellion.

  • To Breathe Again

    To Breathe Again

    There are few things more exhausting than the plague of insincerity from those that find a constant need to explain their drama and their dreams under the pretense of seeking sincere advice to overcome their hurdles. 

    Soliciting advice while professing not to have the answers ourselves, then discarding that advice in favour of taking the easy way out reflects the deficit of conviction in our soul. 

    A deficit of conviction leads to an empty existence, embellished with an outward show of struggles, while concealing an inward turmoil of loneliness as we go through life seeking associations with others that may define who we are. 

    Loneliness is more burdensome when we lack affection for who we are. 

    Lacking affection for who we are results from a lack of courage to live with conviction because we believe that our worth is defined by the acceptance of others before it is defined by our acceptance of ourselves. 

    Accepting ourselves demands that we take a brutally honest view of who we are and what we stand for, but our timid souls protect us from such realities and turn us into victims. 

    As victims, we require a support structure that recognises our weaknesses as battle scars, while ignoring our contribution towards growing so apparently weak. 

    Our contribution towards our weakness, or our impotent state, demands a sense of accountability for the decisions we took and the choices we made. 

    Accountability becomes unnecessary when we’re protected from the reality of it by those that seek to comfort us in moments of weakness while they seek such comfort as well. 

    Seeking commonality in weakness and then building a support structure to celebrate the triumph of existing in spite of such weakness is a fool’s profession of courage to the world. 

    Victims are emboldened in their need to hold others accountable for their (victim’s) choices when the support structure that they subscribe to is formed by equally celebrated victims. 

    Celebrating the weaknesses of others as a statement of courage denies them the motivation needed to emerge from the state of weakness. 

    When our state of weakness defines our significance to those around us, and in turn solicits the affection and care that we desire, we will fight with a blinding rage against anyone that threatens the reality that we’ve created for ourselves. 

    A sobering moment at an unexpected intersection in our lives is all that is needed to shatter the alternate reality that we clung to for so long. 

    A shattered reality forces us to reinvent ourselves in the face of adversity. 

    Forced reinvention in the face of adversity is considerably more challenging than reinvention from introspection. 

    In the absence of courage to reinvent ourselves, we will seek out new avenues to play the old script of pity that is needed for a battle weary soldier. 

    Pity begets pity, and the slide into self loathing will gain momentum. 

    Self loathing constricts our ability to prevail in the absence of a support structure that celebrates our weaknesses, leaving us with the tough decision to either prevail, or willingly fail. 

    The choice we make at this point will either see us emerge from that constricted space and embrace the reality of who we are capable of being, or see us resign ourselves to a scrap heap of souls that found it easier to blame the world for their misery than to live with conviction. 

    If we choose the former, we’ll suddenly breathe deeper and realise that we were simply gasping for air until the arrival of this new reality that we chose to embrace. 

    If we choose the latter, our chests will continue to constrict, until eventually we will suffocate on the bile of the self loathing that we nurtured for so long while waiting for sympathy to make us feel whole. 

    To breathe, rather than gasp, we must live with conviction, and have the courage to see ourselves for who we are and not how others perceive us to be. 

    We always show our best side to society, and hide the worst for the quiet moments of torment that is rarely shared with others. In those quiet moments, we either learn to love ourselves, or loathe ourselves, and the choices of others has no bearing on those moments whatsoever. 

  • Firefighter Syndrome

    I’ve heard this term firefighter syndrome used loosely over the years, most often referring to people that have a tendency to want to rush in and fix things without thinking it through. Not suggesting that firefighters don’t think things through, but I’m sure you get the picture. You know, like the saying that if all you have is a hammer, then every problem looks like a nail? Similarly if everything you see looks like a fire then rushing in to put it out seems like the sensible thing to do. In fact, it almost seems like an inspired calling in life. 

    My experience with this mentality has been somewhat different though. For me, the fire represents an opportunity to be significant and the firefighter represents the one that seeks significance in a crisis situation. It reminds me of an incident a good few years ago in Cape Town. The famed fynbos on Table Mountain and surrounding areas had caught alight due to the recklessness of a smoker (no pun, just the truth) during the dry season.  Their carelessly discarded stompie (a.k.a. cigarette butt) caused the fire to burn out of control for weeks, killing off acres and acres of fynbos and forests. A subsequent investigation revealed that the government agency responsible for managing forest fires in that area had routinely dowsed the flames from fires that started up over the years. Those smaller fires would have resulted in a natural culling of the density of growth,  but by preventing it from self regulating, they created a perfect setting for a perfect brush fire. As a result, when the mother of all fires started, the rate with which it spread was beyond any expectations, and it burned out of control without anyone being able to contain it.

    Too often we convince ourselves that it’s a selfless act to sacrifice our own comforts and well being to alleviate the discomfort or struggles of another. Sometimes that may be true, but most often, it’s not. Most often it is simply a form of escapism from our own lives. It’s easier to feel significant and celebrated when we contribute towards the upliftment of others, than it is to resolve some of the challenges that we are faced with. By focusing on the fires of others we achieve two key objectives. Firstly, we have a seemingly legitimate reason not to reflect on our own problems because of the constant busyness associated with being there for everyone else, and secondly, we provide a very meaningful distraction for them to avoid any opportunity to focus on us. Or more importantly, allowing them to see the mess of gaping holes in our lives. 

    Yes, there is merit in indulging in the upliftment of others, provided such indulgence is not an escape or deprivation of what we need for ourselves to be whole. Also, its merit only remains credible as long as we are convinced that the whole of us is not of more value to the world than the assistance that we offer others. This is especially true when we find that their cries for help are usually not much more than a variation of our own self defeating behaviours. While busying ourselves with helping others provides us with the distraction needed as described earlier, for some, reaching out for help to lift themselves out of their challenged state is their way of getting the affirmation needed to justify their weakness. 

    Consider it from this perspective. The one that is knocked over and finds that their dignity has taken an equal beating as their ego, will find that the shortest path back to a dignified state is found in obtaining the recognition from others that being overwhelmed under such circumstances is entirely understandable. It’s a vicious cycle of sympathy. The one recognises and relates to the weakness of the other because they would desire such sympathy and understanding if they were in a similar position, and the weakened one saves face by appearing downtrodden and therefore oppressed by the circumstances they find themselves in which appeals to our compassion for long enough to distract us from questioning the choices made by the victim that landed them in that state to begin with.  

    How does this relate to the firemen syndrome? I think it encourages a shared weakness in society that supports the abdication of responsibility for our contribution to the straitened circumstances we may find ourselves in. It also encourages the mentality of victimhood. That belief that we’re only strong if we have someone from whom to draw strength when we lack purpose or meaning in our lives. I think that is exactly what it all boils down to. When we lose sight of the value we wish to contribute to this world, or worse, when we lack such convictions to begin with, we look for opportunity to draw on the energies of others in ways to sustain our fragile ego without admitting such fragility. 

    Like the self regulating brush fire, if we constantly protect others from themselves by helping them up when they are entirely capable of standing up by themselves, eventually they will find no use for their own legs or their backbone, and we’ll find ourselves overwhelmed with the burden of having to maintain their fragility because of the unwavering support we provided that protected them from having to grow up. 

    Sometimes the greatest help we can offer is a clear view of reality, not a shelter from it. The more we invest in protecting others from reality, the more we limit our capacity to improve our own. Before you think this is a selfish way to live, consider who is more dependable in times of genuine need. The one who was protected from becoming a fully formed adult, or the one that has grown stronger and independent from the knocks that life has dealt? 

  • Heroes and Hero Worship

    I once heard someone say that each time we create a hero, we diminish our own capacity for greatness. It’s a truth I can easily subscribe to because I cannot relate to the reality of having heroes to begin with. I’ve never looked at someone and thought to myself, “I want to grow up to be just like you”. So this truth is my truth, whether convenient or not. I consider those with heroes to be blessed, but simultaneously sheltered. The convenience of it must be so comforting.

    I’m not talking of heroes from history books or personalities that existed at some point in time prior to my existence. Those tend to be mythical figures of greatness more than anything else because of the bias that history affords them. Their status is relative to the narrator and therefore lacks in authenticity more often than not. The heroes that matter are the ones that bring value systems to life. The ones that are authentic to their stated principles and engage sincerely whether they meet a pauper or a prince. Those heroes I have yet to meet.

    Imagine a life where you have someone like that to turn to for advice and guidance. Someone that gently prompts you in the right direction when you err, or sets you out on the right footing so that you err less. Imagine being able to speak your mind or ramble about your dreams, and such rambling is met with a fond embrace and assurance that anything is possible, rather than a cynical slap in the teeth to wake you from your daydreams to smell the coffee. Imagine how beautifully sheltered you would be then?

    That is why hero worship diminishes our own capacity for greatness. Heroes are figments of our imagination. We turn ordinary beings into creations that are larger than life, not because they wanted it, but because our fickleness needs it. Well, sometimes they want it. In fact, most of us desire it because we see how heroes are celebrated for just being humane or acting with conviction. You’d think that would be the norm, but alas it is not, and the sarcasm dripping from my mouth right now makes it difficult to continue this train of thought.

    But that’s what heroes and hero worship is. It’s an indulgence in our own fantasies because we’re raised with fairy tales and tooth fairies. Yet, despite this reality, the gravity of life far outweighs the gravity of earth, and in so doing, we all yearn for such celebration because it would allow us to experience a manufactured reality that is beyond the grasp of the average being. Then again, isn’t all reality manufactured?

    Be a hero, or create one from nothing, the awkward truth remains. It is only the unpleasant appeal that life holds for us in general that lends credence to fairy tales and heroes because without them, the raw reality of our existence is too much for the fickle masses to bear. Unethical leaders recognise weakness well, which is why they play into these fears and create heroes out of medication, distractions, and trinkets by convincing us that without it we simply would not be able to survive.

    [end cynical rant]

  • The Betrayal of Pain

    As a child, I recall idyllic holidays in the heartland of Kwazulu Natal. A small farm town with only basic amenities, and a farm with an abundance of natural intrigue, even more than beauty. These are two destinations that merge into one in my mind when I reminisce about the long drives down the rugged gravel roads to the farmhouse and the shop where so many memories were made. We had polite but sincere exchanges with the local Zulus despite barely being able to speak each other’s languages. We made meals out of whole loaves of bread with tinned fish and a haphazard array of vegetables or spices that we could lay our hands on, as we crammed all the ingredients into the cavity we dug out from the centre of the loaf.

    We’d sit by the river and build little dams in which to swim, while we wandered downstream wondering how far the river would take us, eventually turning around to head back to the shop before closing time. The sticky mangoes swelling from the branches of the trees and the smell of fresh cow dung. There was a crispness to those experiences that appear to be lost in the years that followed. Memories abound. It’s easy for memories to surface from times that I associated with innocence and warmth. Warmth of the human spirit reflected in the sincerity of interactions that had no veils of political correctness or courtesy about them. There wasn’t a need for adequate expression of words because the bonds we shared transcended such frivolous qualifications.

    One particular trek down that mountain in my uncle’s Land Rover always stands out more than the rest. The road was one he travelled almost every day of his life while he wrestled with the gearbox of that old car. The steep inclines sometimes felt almost vertical to a child of 6 or 8, while I grabbed the seat trying not to fall through the windscreen as we crept our way down the rock-laden path careful not to get my skinny legs in the way of the gear shift that my uncle cursed. I looked up at him one day and asked quite innocently, “Do you ever get used to this road?” His reply was soft, but terse. “You never get used to pain!”

    I smiled sheepishly without realising the gravity of his statement while I continued to take in the beautiful sights around us. I had seen it many times before but even to this day I still stop and stare in awe at any scene that reminds me of it. Even the smell of the bark of a tree burning in an open fire takes me back to those days. The rocks that he saw as painful obstacles I treasured as a playground during the many times that we’d get out of the car at the river crossing while he drove on to the shop. We hopped over the rocks in the river bed as we chuckled through the path less travelled. My uncle, on the other hand, didn’t see those rocks the way we did. He was looking at it from behind that gear shift, while we felt it beneath our feet giving us the firm foothold we needed to make our way through that majestic land.

    Much later in life I grew to appreciate the reality he was faced with. No matter how familiar we are with pain, it doesn’t ever become pleasant. There may be some comfort that we draw from the familiarity of it, but it never ceases to be pain. Quite ironically though, the pain is usually because of a perspective we embrace rather than the reality that we face. He looked at the rocks as the painful hurdles that offered no respite, while it was the faulty gear shift that in fact tainted the beauty of the rocks.

    I’ve found that when I’m caught up in the rapture of the moments that offer curt reminders of betrayals past, I lose sight of the reality of the beauty around me. The minor betrayals that are in reality not much more than annoyances now hold harsh reminders of the graver betrayals of the past. The annoyances now become my faulty gear shift, while the betrayals of the past in fact inform the appreciation I have of the beauty that life has to offer. Only once both have been experienced, betrayal and beauty, can the one be more fully appreciated in the absence of the other. But it takes more than just the realisation of such dichotomies to remain mindful about the good that we have. It takes a gear shift that isn’t a constant annoyance to avoid the distraction from that which is a blessing.

    Too many times I’ve fallen foul of the procrastination to make the tough decisions from fear of creating a reality that held no certainty. The certainty I desired was the odd comfort that I drew from the familiarity of that pain. Eventually I would reach breaking point, by which time the destruction in my wake was tenfold worse than what it would have been had I acted when I first realised that a change was needed. But each time that I contended with that wake my boldness and confidence to deal with such destruction grew, and so the appeal to delay the inevitable became a taunt that goaded me on to push the limits of my patience to points where the mere contemplation of the potential outcomes of losing it left me lightheaded and weak-kneed knowing that my tolerance was being depleted, while my inclination for flexibility decreased.

    Every decision, whether taken or subdued, is a step closer to the inevitable. The more we resist this reality, the greater the cost when eventually what was intended to come to pass, does.

  • Dramatic Trauma

    I’ve always been curious about the impact of our perceptions on the reality we seem to contend with. This became even more prominent in a recent discussion regarding the way in which we perceive or interpret various experiences and how it subsequently affects us.  One thing I realised is that I don’t recall ever looking at any of the many colourful experiences in my life and feeling distinctly overwhelmed or traumatised by it. The thought of it being traumatic never entered my mind.

    Sure, there would be times when I would describe the experiences of others as traumatic events in their lives, but I think there is a very important difference between how we describe something for effect, versus how we experience or internalise it. This rings true to my views about labels and how that also drives conditioned responses within us. Without intending to rob others of the gravity of their life experiences, I would suggest that the moment our internal conversations suggest to us that we’re experiencing a traumatic event rather than just a challenging event, it reinforces the sensations associated with feeling attacked, as opposed to raising our awareness of our response options instead.

    It reminds me of moments when the responses of others towards an event in my life seemed to have heightened my awareness to the impact of it compared to how I felt a moment before they said anything. This has happened to me often regarding death or near death experiences. I would cope with the reality quite well, but would be jolted into a deeper sense of loss or betrayal when I saw the emotion in the faces of others that were witnessing the events unfold.

    It’s like the contagion of a yawn. We tend to feel a need for rest after watching someone else going through a really hearty yawn, even though there was absolutely nothing wrong with our energy levels before that. I think this is the same response we have towards people that express raw emotion around us. We’re drawn to it like a moth to the flame. Sometimes it grounds us in compassion, but often it sucks us into the victim state that makes it that much more difficult for us to emerge from it. More destructive than this is when we find a sense of comfort in the sympathy from others that dwarfs any level of comfort we experienced in the normal course of our lives. That’s when the weak and neglected among us play to the sympathies of others and remain bogged down in a phase of their lives that ultimately defines their existence, not because the event itself is too traumatic to let go of, but the attention and significance it afforded them is too rare for them to want to give up. Rare in the context of their lives.

    It’s that dramatic emotional response that leaves a lasting impression. It makes a mediocre life noteworthy,  and when that fleeing moment threatens to pass, a cycle is spawned where we seek opportunities to create triggers for yet more sympathy because as long as others sympathise, the true frailty of our lives would escape us as long as we enjoy the sympathetic embrace of others. That embrace tells us that it’s ok to be broken. It tells us that simply surviving is a triumph in itself, and that any lack of conviction or courage to move beyond that point is completely understandable.

    That’s when we fail ourselves, and we fail others. When we gauge the intensity of the struggle of our lives relative to the weaknesses of others. It’s for this reason that we need to look towards those that rose above it rather than those that coped. Unfortunately, our celebration of mediocrity makes it increasingly difficult to tell the difference. Couple that with our innate fear of exposing ourselves to the same opportunity that earned us betrayal and you have a perfect recipe for a victim’s regret that is despised on the inside and dressed as strength on the outside. If only we put as much energy into moving on, life would be so much more endearing.