I’m not sure how or why I ended up here, and maybe one of these two will have an answer if I let go, just for once, but I don’t work that way. I’ve always resented it, but never could change it, although somehow I’m grateful for it, because it has protected me like nothing and no one else has, or will. I hate it and I love it, sort of like the same relationship one might have when they’ve been in prison for too long and have come to depend on the confining walls for survival, as if they’ve somehow become part of the wall, and the wall has become their very being. That’s why they can’t leave, because if they do, they’ll auto-exorcise.
Do we really have a choice? What’s a choice? I used to tell myself that one has a choice with everything, he just chooses not to call it a choice when the stakes are too big, or when it requires too much effort on his part. I used to believe that acceptance is proclaiming defeat. I used to ridicule how a person is willing to put in that effort if he had to but not if he so wished. But think about it, do we really have a choice, in anything that we are, have, don’t have, want, need or resent? Or are we just making it harder on ourselves? I still believe in those things, the only difference is that now, I’m willing to question them.
Why is it so hard for me to give up on anything, no matter how trivial? It can’t just be the inner child whining a little too loud for too long. Why do I never stop fighting? The right phrasing would be this: Why can’t I stop fighting? Why is acceptance of all things as is the hardest endeavor for me when it’s the go-to solution for everyone else? Am I wrong? Are they right? Are the last two questions really the same?
I’m rambling, that’s progress. It’s the beginner’s level of letting go. I usually get to this part then I somersault back to square one. I’ve been trying to look through my coding and see where the loop is, but it feels like I’ve gone all Zaphod Beeblebrox on myself. Smart, a little too smart. I never really got past the restaurant at the end of the universe so I don’t know whether he’ll eventually unlock the part of his brain that he’s hidden from himself, and now it feels like reading the books would unlock an achievement. Funny, how the mind works, or rather, malfunctions. Do I have to get past the restaurant at the end of the universe to find out? Or rather, would getting past the restaurant at the end of the universe help?
I’m tired of people apologizing to me. Just like I’m tired of verbs. Verbs are the root of all problems, you know. They report the action, and actions mess things up. No theory ever got anyone into trouble, not anyone who wasn’t Greek anyway. Theories are intelligent, they’re the nouns of life, but they’re cowards, they’re inanimate and frustratingly stationary. They never take risks. But where have risks got me? A better place, sure. A happier place? No, that would be too easy.
Now you see, if I weren’t me, I wouldn’t think inanimate stationary states of being are frustrating. And oddly that’s the one thing I’ve never regretted, I’ve never regretted being me, with all my blunders and train-wrecks, I’ve always been satisfied in who I am; rough around the edges but always preferring straight lines. I stumble around the rubble every once in a while, but then again it’s a building site and rubble is good news.
What scares me is this, will I question this too?
Why are easy things cursed? It can’t be another little life joke, now can it? It feels that a foreboding air lingers around all things easy. But then again that also comes with the package, I wouldn’t feel that if I weren’t me.
Which gets us back to the main point, the one that started this post, do we really have a choice in who we are? Surely, what we have, don’t have, want, need or resent are what makes us who we are, but if I’m questioning the choice in the elements, doesn’t it follow that I question the outcome?
I don’t like rambling. And it makes sense that I don’t, because rambling doesn’t work in straight lines. Straight lines aren’t easy. It all fits. In fact, it’s such a snug fit that it’s making me question if it was the work of man. Or man’s choice.
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