Bookmark #577

There is so much empathy in me, I sometimes drown in my worry for others, for the world, and I sit, staring at nothing, gasping for breath. And I am told, time and again, by others, by the world, and by how people live, that this may be the good fight, but it is not a fight worth fighting. The further I go in my years, the more I realise that people and no one else is their worst enemies in most cases. Most, not all. I am fully aware of the difference. But then, when we get down to brass tacks, I wonder if the difference is even significant enough to consider. I wrestle with this conflict, this dissonance within me every day, in situations small and large. The more I go through my days, the more I see how this magnanimous mission, this emotional altruism, will be the thing that makes me come undone someday. And with that thought, I wonder whether I have it all wrong. Perhaps, we ought to take the world at face value, no less, no more. No one is more than what they appear to be. Perhaps, there is an ease in living like this, too.

I am not entirely sold on the idea yet, and there are parts of me that accept this notion with welcome arms, parts which are exhausted of seeking all things bright and beautiful in the world. And then, there are parts of me that I do not know much about, but they tell me to keep seeking, that we build the world in our image. And in this perilous gap, I spend my days. Suspended, as always.

All my certainty is a direct result of the continual dissonance in me. We only know what we want and believe when we ask ourselves the question thousand times over, and the answer remains unwaveringly the same. But with this, with how I view the world, I have begun to sense a reluctance in my words. I have started to see the world for what it is: a problematic mess. There is beauty in this, and in this, there is also terror. I am scared of the world and flabbergasted at its sight, too. But I am no longer imagining any of it.

It is how it looks, haphazard and random, peppered with everything it can be and should not be; that is the only way it knows to be, however. All else is wishful thinking, and I reckon it is childish imagination.

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