Is there a way to love? What defines the legibility of love? What terms can we take comfort in knowing that we are genuinely loved? There is no single equation to what love is. I’d like to think every individual is a unique algebra equation, with an “X” figure that remains to be solved. But the right “X” has to complement the other functions in the equation before it can be deemed solved.
And just like algebra, we get the easy ones and we get the tough ones. The more functions and unknowns present in the equation, the more weight the “X” would need to fulfill in completing the equation.
I could perhaps be oversimplifying love, I guess I just wanted to make a point that love can be easy, but it can be also pretty darn tough as well.
But that is not to say that the equation can’t be solved. It just takes a little more time and dedication.
Raindrops fall carelessly down. I’m curled up in my parked car, lights off, slow music in the background.
It’s one of those nights again. One where I scramble to find the misplace piece. It’s a conundrum that’s been creeping up on me of late. There’s something amiss. And I don’t know what, or why.
Yet another pursuit to find peace of mind. But what’s there left?
That space between me and -.
Love is free,
Hope is passion.
A shelter we need,
There will be courage.
I’ve been listening to the same music album for the past three days, which is something I rarely do. Although maybe because this is instrumental but I can’t help but ponder what’s belying this. I don’t know, maybe it’s an intentional act of ignorance that I so often catch myself doing when approaching a subject matter of thought that I know will require me to yield a conclusion.
It’s like I relish being in a state of ambiguity. A languid state of affairs. What moves from side to side but not forwards and back. I would say this phase that I’m in is completely alien to me. Unfamiliar. It feels difficult identifying the emotions and thoughts I am having. What is it that is making its way into this vessel.
Detached. Yes, I feel detached. More so than ever before. Despite the healthy social calendar I have, I feel quieter on the inside. The only sound is the constant monologue in my head. Even that I have chosen to pay selective attention to.
I am deviating from my id.
Title of post refers to the said music album,
This is not a game.
As I constantly remind myself of that, I find it hard to be convinced that I’m truly the only person trustworthy enough to make decisions for myself. At the same time, I do not trust others. And that bothers me tremendously because if I don’t trust myself and others included, who then is making these decisions for me?
Ignorance perhaps. And that terrifies me even more. I feel as though I’m flitting between these ideas of denial and reality, choosing as and when to enter these different realms as I please. A controlled form of ignorance if you will. I find that I’m inclined to believe every action or decision I make will lead to a didactic result. That “hey, if something goes wrong at least you learned something.” But I can’t help but think that maybe that approach is wrong.
We talk of not being afraid to make mistakes, that it is okay to fail and fail as long as we keep trying. That eventually you will get it. But what if the reason we tell ourselves that is because we don’t know any better than to latch onto the first thing we think we feel most passionately about and commit all of our energy and time into it just because we are told to follow our passion. What if we mistake passion for something we love but are not actually good at. How does one ever reach the apex being blinded like that?
Is it possible for one to be selfish towards oneself? Because in order to sustain that “passion” one forgoes other eventualities that could perhaps bring a more desirable result. Life is too short to be dedicated to only one thing. But that is what we are told, that we are only able to truly love one thing. That is what saddens and frightens me – that life is indeed a game, where we all play to only achieve that one solitary goal.
The clock ticks, as the night weaves by, inking thoughts into dreams.
Pins of light, waver in slow movements across the dark canvas.
A solemn sigh fills the void, a whisper of wishfulness into the crevices of the heart.
I seemed to have forgotten about this space.
Ah, well what did I say. Writing is hard when you’re happy (and busy, of course). So much energy is focused externally, that there’s little left for the insides.
I simply need time to think. Funny how not too long ago I was waiting for time to pass.
Intriguing how the heart and mind re-wires itself so efficiently as if someone just hit the reset button. Only that it took a while for it to happen. But it’s almost like a refreshed canvas, purged of past memories – clean of sadness.
I think that’s the part that saddens me a little, ironically. That I seemed to have forgotten what the sadness once felt like. No, I’m not a habitual self-inflicter of pain. But like I said before – to feel is to live. And how much more feel can you get out of sadness.
Not asking for it, just merely saying.