I don’t understand how things can be so simple and yet so complicated that instead of instilling in you awe, they just leave you feeling empty and bewildered. Helpless, because of your own frustration.
Why does everything brilliant, in it’s bright shine leave a flutter of defeat and resignation for such a split second that isn’t enough to ignore, nor enough to notice.
I have often approached life and circumstances with questions rather than answers. I have been unfocused, delusional but always keen on hearing answers, concrete and fundamental. It is partially because I know those answers will never be enough to last a lifetime. Like everything magnificent, they will liberate me for a short moment, before returning to oblivion, becoming inconsequential, replaced by some other temporary obsession.
They will stand the test of time for civilizations to come, they’ll be reborn, but they will fail the time of a singular man. A man who might never survive to see the life come to a full circle, if he refuses to acknowledge the truth with no displacement in the present.
Among many other simple questions of mine the question that always finds it’s way back to me is ,Why do I like to write?
Why do I like it even when I feel that all I am doing is inserting simple logic disguised in eloquent statements, being uplifted by some false sense of beauty or intellect. Most of the times, what I write about, what others write about are those same monotonous subjects, the same theories, the same story of vague ambiguous emotions, lessons which are so inconclusive , that they fail to serve any definite purpose. Even when being homogeneous they never truly integrate.
How every abstract idea that builds in my head is crushed due to the pressure of convention,only able to survive a raw form. After being snubbed as ridicule by none other than myself.
Why are we all so afraid of levitating in a different direction? Are we terrified that it will shake our foundations? If yes, then what difference does we truly make, how are we special if we never choose a new path because we don’t have enough trust in our faith and we have have reservations that our ideals will fail us. Not able to step across a treshold.When we don’t have courage to know our own useful life without calculating our depreciation.
I know tomorrow I will read this and excuse myself by saying maybe I had a bad day, maybe I was in a foul mood. I will think I have been a vain egoist by writing this, and if that is the case I’m glad I could admit it.
I will never go below the surface of what I might end up confessing, discovering or literally unearthing only if I chose to go deeper.
All this because I’m afraid to not only drown but also to admit that I am afraid.I am afraid that the oxygen of certainity will not reach my lungs and the pressure of time, knowledge and practises will make it impossible for my small frame and untrained mind to tread below.
I need the sunlight of sureity and reassurance, the freedom of the air that everyone breathes. The vast expanse of open skies, to admire from the ground. I need the reward of life, I need the approval of the only truths I’ve known.
In that deep treacherous corner I will admit as coldly as I started that I am afraid of dark ,I am afraid of that escape. Darkness has no source, it has no reference and I must turn to the reality that was built for me. Built by strangers , built by people I love. I might just be a creeper, who needs to cling for support to rise and grow. Maybe we all are viruses that just need a host to survive.
Certainly Doubtful 