Bookmark #689

Dark clouds loom over town as if something is about to go wrong. It makes me curious how we suspend disbelief in ordinary things in the name of art. Clouds are ominous in narrative. But when it rains, it just rains. We know this all too well, but when we read a poem or watch a film, we doubtlessly think them harbingers of something awful. But it is not awful—it is the most usual thing. More storms are swept daily than we can count. Far worse things happen, and we never bat an eye.

I sit at my desk, and the burst of light from the window has dwindled in lieu of this weather, but push has still not come to shove—I have not gotten up to turn the lights on, and now, only this corner I sit in beside the glass door of the balcony has any light on it. The rest is engulfed in the soft shadow of the evening already. I am lazy in this regard. Most of what I do—daily and in life—is rarely ahead of time. It is always in the nick of it that I do whatever I expect of myself, and what of the expectations of others? I do not care much about it.

I have learned there is only one promise to keep in this life: to do what you told yourself you would do—whether it comes of your own volition or from a request is a different thing. But we must never succumb to expectations. People expect the most from others and the least from themselves. My expectations of myself are humongous; it leaves no time and space to think of what others expect of me. There has always been one rule: to do what I said I would do, and I have made myself proud, and I have let myself down enough to know not all of us can win all the time, but we all can win sometimes.

I was talking to someone about the reluctance to improve in the average person a few days ago, and it occurred to me that the only thing the average person has to do is be a smidge better, and what average means changes on its own. But I did not say it on the off chance that they considered themselves average. You do not want to offend anyone, not until you intend to. It is like spilling something on the floor. You never want it to happen, and it does happen now and then, and when it does, you spend hours wiping it off.