Bookmark #304

Perhaps, I was broken in some way. There was an almost unending capacity for forgiveness in me. It did not make sense to me. I look at my father sometimes. I look at his life, and I notice where I get this emotional altruism from. I see the consequences of it, here and there—and yet, I live a life guided by what I saw growing up. I look at my mother. I look at her immense capacity to go out of her way for others, and I see where I get my sense of responsibility from. I see how too much of it can take a toll on someone, now and then—and yet, I take the weight as if it were my own.

Combined with some of my own experiences, some lessons I learned through proxy, and some mistakes I made on my own, I had lost the ability to hold a grudge. It was a terrible affliction. Life was much easier for people who could hate easily and quickly. Those in their marble institutions and ivory towers could talk about kindness all day long; the average person got through their days by slicing connections on the slightest of misgivings. Why blame them? They were better off doing it this way than understanding.

Empathy was a privilege of people with enough time on their hands—to sit and ponder. Those trying to make a living, to save themselves, could not afford that kind of time. I often did not have the time myself, but in a series of events I could not even replicate myself, I had developed a distaste for walling people off. People who left a sour taste in my mouth could still ask for a favour, and on most days, I obliged. A friend or two often advised me how this was not a wise way to live. To their dismay, I did not learn a thing.

To be honest, I did not even understand on most days, and yes, I was no saint either—I was furious now and then. Still, I put my hand forward when asked for help. It was a taxing way to live. I could see how this capacity was misused by others, but I often reminded myself of history when I felt the need to change.

To me, humanity was a story of regular people forgiving each other, of lending an unwilling hand, over and over, even when it hurt, especially when it hurt, regardless of who gained or lost. History was checkpointed in treaties of peace.

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