Probably Possible

It seems that one area of frustration for me is that I have a tendency to look at what is possible and then pursue that as the end goal, while most others look at what is probable, and surrender to it before even starting. Probabilities are so much easier to work with. But even in writing that I know that every possibility is a probability as well. Problem is, my tolerance level for obstacles is often significantly higher than most people around me, and that is where the rub starts.

That Shakespearean rub is not a comforting one either. Comfort. That word is almost as strange to me as peace or tranquillity. There is an annoying undertone in life that prompts me to continue on the journey despite my fading conviction to want to prevail. Words, a bleeding keyboard, whispered sentiments that carry on the wind, or the putrid stench of regrets. They all amount to nothing. They dance or flirt with my composure for a few brief moments, threatening to unsettle me either pleasantly, or mostly unpleasantly, but the insincere hope that they carry with them tugs at the fool within me. That fool that I hold in a despicable embrace. That embrace that jealously protects the hint of innocence within, while outwardly despising the ridicule that it often solicits.

It’s probably possible to live oblivious to all this and to focus on just the trinkets that distract me enough to keep me pacified, but such complacency always reeked with insincerity for me. Half measures are for cowards. Conviction is a lost art. Sincerity a political tool. Indeed, if despite my best efforts this world still holds no peace for me, then surely I must have been created for another purpose or place. But how vexing is the thought that the rejection I suffer in this world may yield such venom from my character that the world I was created for may reject me as well.

I am reminded again about what I would want from heaven. At times like this, a simple nothingness. A nothingness of expectations, either of me, or of what pleasures it may offer. A nothingness of words or the need to express. A nothingness of purpose or the need to achieve. But mostly, a nothingness of realisations beyond the absolute present moment. To be left to cower in awe at the majesty of the dust of its confines, the unworldly shimmer of its magnificence, and the embracing silence of the nothingness that accompanies it all. No expectations to meet, no aspirations to achieve. Just me and that beautiful dust enveloped by the joy of being, and nothing more.

It’s probably possible, but the cycles of my lifetimes suggest that it will continue to flit at the tips of my fingers, goading me on to reach out for it, despite knowing that it will forever be beyond my reach. Perhaps the joy of the pursuit is the reward, and the acquisition of its goal will betray the dream. Perhaps the elusiveness of its acquisition is therefore the blessing I seek but do not appreciate, while what I seek is in fact a mirage.

These ramblings sometimes deny me the release that I crave. Tonight is one such time when all such comforts appear distinctly elusive.

The Purge

Today was one of those days when I needed to be purged of everything vile that I am compelled to deal with. It was a day in which I was reminded of the stench of betrayal, the slithery undertones of ingratitude, and the arrogance of authority. But in between all this I was faced with the feeble nature of those that are so meek in their convictions that they lose themselves in their need for inclusion amongst those they profess to despise.

Nothing was purged. Instead, I found myself recollecting thoughts from an earlier time in my life when I realised that what doesn’t kill you only makes you more brittle. I grew a little more brittle today. The intolerance I have towards the unethical was tested again, but in the absence of being financially independent, I found myself restraining my responses rather than being true to my convictions.

Perhaps a touch of hypocrisy is needed when dealing with hypocrites. Perhaps that notion of hypocrisy is needed to provide some solace from the reality that my faith faltered for long enough to make me a bitch of the system. The very same system that makes academics into sages, and sages into fools, or optional counsel at best. I have much venom in me right now and unless I purge myself of it, I know that it will take its toll. First in physical ailments, but more importantly, in unjustified rage at a system that enslaves while it pretends to be liberating.

If ever there was a time when good appeared as evil and evil as good, this would be it. Living with conviction is truly like juggling hot coals in my hands. There is no one to step up to take the coals off my hands, but the intensity of the heat is all that I can relate to and so I hold on to it affectionately. It’s all that holds any meaning or value any longer. Insincerity and hypocrisy bear a coldness that threatens to deny me any sense of peace or composure. I find an odd sense of peace in knowing that I didn’t back down in the face of a bully.

But bullies are so discreet these days. They pretend to be protecting the weak, while they shy away from challenging the strong. Their delegated authority is all that commands any respect or acknowledgement, but until that is removed from the equation, they will hold an air of superiority that only the foolhardy will question. The system has more bitches than it has purpose or beneficiaries. Each rung of the ladder is acquired only through the surrender of a due proportion of your soul.

Contentment eludes me. Sanity does too. So does the needed purge. I remain unfulfilled and abandoned by so much of this world’s attractions. I’m fortunate. Anything more and I would probably be as complacent and distracted by the trinkets as the masses of hypocrites that pretend to be victims to the system that they sustain. I’m flirting with arrogance, but again I’m reminded of an earlier realisation. If an arrogant one is not treated with arrogance, how will they ever taste the sweetness of humility?

Of course the mere suggestion of humility implies arrogance, so perhaps humility eludes me too. Perhaps I am as culpable for the system of whores that I so despise, but I pretend to be an unwilling participant that is a victim of circumstance. We’re all better than the ones we despise, aren’t we?


They miss the point!

I have a tendency to seek the potential in people and then proceed to encourage them towards realising that potential. I do this because I am naïve enough to believe that that is truly the aspiration of all of us. You know? That age old claim that says that we want others to believe in us because we’re so precious and we have so much to offer but we’re just waiting for the right opportunity and the right support and the right everything to come along before we can take that pathetic step forward to suggest that we actually have something to offer. It’s all bullshit.

I’ve realised that the most gut wrenching and draining thing you could ever do is apply yourself towards the upliftment of others. Why? Simple. People are lazy by nature. They’re lazy and un apologetically uninspired because the few that pursue their passions are mocked and ridiculed for being different, while the rest are preoccupied with fitting in and being ridiculously unique just like everyone else.

Yes, I am annoyed and disheartened. More so at the fact that there is always an overwhelming chorus of people chanting for change, but as soon as the choir breaks up, they’re the first to run home to enjoy their celebration of mediocrity while living life through the achievements of their icons that are nothing more than fictional tales they see in the gossip columns of the tabloids. The stench of puny thinking is repulsive. People look at things and immediately decide what is good enough to get past what they’re faced with, while just a small group will actually consider how can they take what they are faced with and turn it into something larger than life.

I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to understand the human psyche because of a naïve notion that suggested that it is fear and nothing else that limits us in what we can achieve. I thought that by understanding those fears I would be able to help them see past that limitation and thereby unlock a beauty that would amaze even them. Of course understanding their fears was always only ever a result of me seeking to understand my own first. But they never get that. The default assumption is that if I am able to articulate what constricts them, then I must be free of it myself. I must have never experienced it hence my ability to seemingly trivialise what they feel.

They just don’t get it. In all my efforts I’ve tried to demonstrate to them that they are innately capable of greater things without the need for a guide or mentor or other pillar of strength to lean on. However, I didn’t realise that in doing so, they automatically turned me into their crutch to achieve more. That is not nearly a compliment to me when considered within the context of the disappointment it spawns. Each time I believe they’ve reached a new level of confidence and capability, I’ve found that they were only acting out of compliance with what they deemed to be my expectations rather than because they had a sincere conviction in the values that I thought we shared.

This is an unapologetically self-indulgent rant. It is a trickle of what needs to be vented in order to regain some balance in my perspective on life and people. I have trusted in the human goodness that is often celebrated, but each time it has resulted in the degradation of relations because the burden of expectation was greater than the willingness to be true. The impossibility of perfection should never be reason enough to dissuade us from its pursuit. Unfortunately, too often, we’re prone to believe that only icons or celebrated leaders are capable of such accomplishments, while conveniently forgetting that a human exists behind the façade that they have imposed on them.


Indulgence in distractions is a worldly pastime because it’s desperately needed. Reality, for the aware, will always be excruciatingly burdensome. Despite my most enthusiastic efforts to convince myself that the reality behind the burdens is in fact the truth, and that the burdens are in fact the distractions, I keep finding myself sobered up by the reality that I’m wrong.

Living idealistically while trying to remain grounded in reality is exhausting. Being the optimist around a bunch of defeatists is exhausting. People are exhausting. And so is life. There is a natural inclination for people to employ their innate ability of osmosis to drain the life blood out of those that they polarise towards in times of trouble, while reciprocating with nothing more than a meaningless token gesture or a materialistic gift. Most people live on credit, but they’re so focused on their material debts that they fail to realise that their contribution towards the upliftment of those around them falls far short of what they take, which leaves the real debt unsettled.

The good life, in this world, seems to be acquired when our volume of distractions exceed the reality of our responsibility. It’s no wonder then that the sense of fulfilment or completeness that we all seek is so elusive. That’s the thing with distractions. If you focus on sustaining them for long enough they begin to appear as essentials, while the truth that they were used to dumb down assumes the status of an unrealistic expectation. I guess that makes reality elusive as well.

It’s not surprising then that life is as complicated as it appears to be. But in that there is a rub as well. If the majority is convinced that this life of distractions is in fact reality, the minority that realise the fallacy of it all will find themselves at odds with the prevailing logic, which regardless of its flaws, will significantly influence the level of peace and harmony experienced by the grounded ones. In that lies the gravest choice because the realisation of something can never be undone. We can never un-realise a truth that we subscribe to. The only way to truly change our grasp on reality would be to find meaningful evidence that convinces us that such a realisation was wrong to begin with, or perhaps insufficiently informed.

In the absence of finding such relief, the burden of reality as we perceive it to be will never subside even if we successfully distract ourselves from it for most of our lives. I believe that the moment of clarity we experience before death finally overcomes us will be the moment when all distractions will finally be rendered impotent and the reality of our lives, our excuses, and our failings will suddenly grip our souls. That final wretched embrace will leave us yearning for the life that we always wished was over while romanticising death, but the romance of death will give way to the unalterable reality of its finality. Such finality will not spawn peace or comfort for the soul that was distracted during their life.

I am convinced that there is an important point in all this rambling, although even that seems to elude me right now. Perhaps it’s the fact that my struggle has always been pitted in striking a balance between encouraging the wholesome balance of reality and harmony while finding it necessary to spurn the actions of those that detract from such a goal. One of my death bed regrets will inevitably be my inability to demonstrate the sincerity and intention behind my actions, which is easily hidden by my intolerance for obliviousness.

No Forever Afters

It’s natural sometimes to feel fear when life suddenly takes a turn for the better,  because a history of disappointment or challenges conditions us to expect the worst.  So instead of embracing our new experiences,  we end up bracing ourselves for what we expect might happen.  It’s part of our survival instinct. However, because we’re protecting ourselves from a threat that is not present,  our body takes strain because of the imbalance it causes, which results in poor health and dysfunction. Unfortunately, at that point, the ill health causes us to turn to the modern medical professional first, instead of last.

You see, when we have this imbalance that causes ill health, we’re conditioned to believe that something external to us has suddenly created an internal problem. A problem that we’re incapable of rectifying unless we bombard our bodies with chemical cocktails that will strip the paint off the wall if applied correctly. But tonight I don’t quite care about the stupidity of current mainstream health regimens. I don’t quite care for much at all actually.

For some time now I’ve looked around and realised that no matter how much effort or expense is invested in the maintenance and upkeep of the structures around us, the moment that effort is complete, the decay starts setting in to prepare us for the next bout of maintenance. Everything in this world, including us, was designed to perish, to decay, to disintegrate into nothing at the end of being something. It’s a fruitless endeavour to focus on embellishing this world, or this life, but the fickleness of my nature always distracts me towards enticing challenges that lure me towards them under the pretence of it being an expression of my creativity, or in other cases, an opportunity to make the lives of others more comfortable or pleasant.

Nothing lasts, not the intensity of the emotions felt when love is most inflamed, nor the bitter anger of the betrayal of that same love when it fades. It all dissolves into nothing as time erodes its memory, but yet we pursue the concept of forever after as if it was truly experienced in this world. It never was, and never will be. There are no forever afters, nor are there any fail safe remedies to outlast this world. All we can ever do is delay the inevitable, but the inevitable is inevitable, or else it would not be called the inevitable, yet, inevitably, we seem not to get it. It really is as absurd as that sounded.

I know that I should be taking the lighter load for the road ahead. I know that the lighter load means less indulgences in materialism, and more in spiritualism. I also know that finishing my latest gardening project adds to that load, but my obstinacy, or perhaps my weakness, is that it is easier to feed my feeble sense of self-worth through accomplishing these celebrated goals, rather than to draw comfort from the fact that I would have successfully detached myself from this world a little more when I walked past that beautiful water feature without reaching to see if my credit card was in my wallet.

This same weakness within me is what I despise in others. I often despise it even more because being surrounded with a similar weakness leaves me without a handhold to lift myself out of the quagmire of materialism. Living comfortably is a lie. A horrible lie that is unachievable. By our very nature we will constantly seek to improve what we have because that is the yardstick of success. Only those whose primary focus is a goal external to their immediate circle of influence or responsibility will stand any chance of overcoming such a weakness. Unfortunately such philanthropic or altruistic endeavours are also plagued with indulgence of the spiritual self because of our need to be acknowledged and validated.

This world cannot come to an end soon enough.

It’s not your fault…

It’s not your fault if you grew up in a dysfunctional home, and now find yourself going through life trying to find a niche to call home, as long as that niche is not with family. It’s not your fault if you grew up in a functional home and can’t relate to the restlessness and anger of those that have grown impatient and intolerant with the prejudices of the world. It’s not your fault if you grew up in an average home that was neither dysfunctional nor functional but struck an awkward but not destructive balance between the two and now find it difficult to understand what the fuss is all about.

It’s never your fault for how you were raised, but it is your fault if you choose to remain a product of your upbringing for the rest of your life. There is a point that we all reach in our lives when we become self-aware and uneasy about just being. That point is not reached when we turn 18, or when we turn 21, or any other age for that matter. That point is not defined by age, but instead it’s defined by our willingness to question what lies behind who we are and what we aspire to be.

We’ve turned life into a series of superficial milestones that leave us oblivious to the major gaps in our lives that occur while we’re waiting for that next milestone before we find a reason to act. We wait to turn 18 before contemplating the future, and then we wait to turn 21 before we expect to be taken seriously, and then we wait to get a job before we feel worthy, or we wait to get a degree before we believe we have something of value to contribute to this world. We wait until we get our first job, and then we wait for each pay day, and then we wait for the annual bonus, and we wait and wait and wait. And all this time we’re blaming the system and blaming society and blaming the world for being a rotten place that celebrates scum and punishes victims. But we fail to realise that in all this waiting we’re allowing the system to define who we are and what we’re capable of achieving, and then we become disillusioned and angry when we don’t find our place in that system that is supposed to see how significant we are, or when people fail to celebrate our milestones.

I’m not quite sure what the point of this post is. Perhaps it’s just a rant, or perhaps it’s just a brain dump. Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps it’s a small token of my struggle to rise above the system that has been restraining me all my life. Whatever it is, I suspect that there is some truth in between all the noise, and finding a moment in the chaos to stop and reflect on that hint of sanity in the noise is struggle that has plagued me for a long time now.