hazy afternoons

Nothing is ever certain.
Nothing.
Not even the colour of someone’s eyes.
You might think you’ll get into the car
and get to your destiny just in time;
you might wonder what time it is
and looking at the clock,
be sure it’s 12:35.
But the truth is:
and brace yourself, because this is the truth:
there is none.
No truth at all.
No certainty.
And yes, I am aware of the paradox that creates:
I am aware that by saying nothing is true
I’m putting my own statement to question.
But that’s just how life goes, isn’t it?
That’s just how life goes.
It is.
A few years ago, I thought I knew things for sure.
I know it sounds stupid, I do: but I thought I knew.
I thought my whole life was laid out ahead of me
and few things could possibly change.
I didn’t really like the way things would [most definitely] go:
I wasn’t passionate about any part of it,
but I felt it had to be that way.
I would be lying if I said I remember how I felt about all of it
because I don’t.
I remember being suicidal
and depressed
and just an overall pessimist
and believing my silly little plans
[as silly and uninteresting as they were]
would go exactly as planned
and then life wouldn’t be so painful:
it wouldn’t be nice either, and
it wouldn’t be interesting
or fun
or happy
or even just plainly satisfying
but it would be bearable.
Yes: bearable.
I think that is the key-word.
Nothing would go against the plan.
My future was certain and dull: but certain.
I don’t like to think about it much.
I’ve thought it through a thousand times already,
and honestly,
it doesn’t make much of a difference.
It doesn’t help with living the present.
I feel silly about what I felt and thought back then,
but this feeling is equally unnecessary,
for it doesn’t help me in going forward.
So, I changed.
It’s hard because sometimes,
sometimes part of you is in the present
and it’s entirely here:
but there’s a part of you
[a tiny one]
[a tiny but quite chatty one]
that raises its hand every day and goes:
“yes, but what about what you thought back then?
You might be fooling yourself again
and in fact I’m quite sure you are indeed”.
And you,
you are standing in front of the whole class,
your own hand in the middle of an incomplete movement
hanging on the air
and you’re speechless.
What if you are fooling yourself?
Last time you fooled yourself you had no idea
[absolutely no idea at all]
that you were doing it.
What now?
You can’t be certain it’s the real thing now.
You can’t.
No one can.
But you can’t be sure it’s not the real thing either and really:
really, that is the beauty of it.
I’m not following these steps because that’s what people do:
because things couldn’t be better anyway, not even if I tried:
because it’s the circle of life and one must get used to it:
because there’s no use in fighting against destiny,
and it might be a somewhat nice and comforting doom anyway.
I’m doing things because they feel right.
From the bottom of my whole being
they feel right.
Maybe not for anyone else but me,
but this time they feel intrinsically right for me.
Maybe that’s the whole point.
I’m not sure it’s the real thing.
I have a feeling it is, but it might not be.
I think things through
and I feel things through as well.
I am not sure of much.
I know I am going to die.
And I know I’m going to be a whole another person
by the time I am cremated
[and please keep that in mind:
I want to be cremated].
I know my plans might sound a lot like today’s
or they might be entirely different:
I might have accomplished the current ones
and then I would be chasing new and updated goals.
It’s entirely possible.
But I’m never turned off and left alone in some deep and dark corner of my own mind:
I’m never not-a-part of the decision process anymore.
And if something doesn’t feel right, for the love of any deity,
I don’t go on with it.
Maybe that’s what maturing is all about:
accepting that things are not the same forever
and it’s okay.
Seeing how plans and goals and people and roles change
and it’s okay.
Things and plans and people come and go
and you stay:
you always stay with yourself:
and new people come, and some people always remain
[even though they’re different, themselves
and you still love them]
and it’s okay.
Maybe that’s maturing.
It’s knowing you don’t know things
and being your best companion when you know new things
and when you unknow others.
And it’s staying calm through the never ending
the absolutely never ending
the constant and omnipresent
process
of
changing.
(Carol Smnt)
Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s