Bookmark #935

It seems amidst all the eventfulness and the general variety of life, I have forgotten to humour the perpetual speck of sadness in my heart. I have covered it with humour instead, like mud onto some sketchy hole in the ground. Now, I realise that it has been months since I had a conversation with myself, so I sat myself down and talked tonight. It is, of course, not the first time this has happened, but there was a difference today. It being that I could assign a word to it: rationality. All the sadness within me comes from rationality—at one point, the blatant absence of it, and now an overbearing presence, perhaps, as a lesson learned as a consequence of the former. And once this conversation was over, I figured a glass of wine would not hurt to help lighten the mood, unclench the shoulders a little and wind down. And then, I thought to write a little, but then, there was nothing to say, having said everything I wanted to say before I sat to write. So, I went to read some old, unpublished drafts, left in the middle as if I died while typing, got bored out of my mind, or realised there was nothing to say except a sentence or two. Not all thoughts are worthy of a passage. Not all things are worthy of completion. That was about an hour ago, and now, here we are, and I still have no words to spill.

All I know is that we must consider the entirety of ourselves. Between all the ill-timed jokes and roundabout rationalisation, the reassurance of fastidious compartmentalisation so I get things done, and the obsession with keeping everything as it is and in its rightful place, I have neglected a part of myself that defines me as much, if not more than anything else. It is not lost on me how I have repeatedly broken my heart in favour of doing the right thing, of doing the rational thing. And today is perhaps just that: a day to take stock of cause and effect. But effects can also become causes in themselves. For someone who flouted rationality like the rebel on the tower tearing a flag down in the middle of a revolution, I did not imagine I would turn out like this—not that there are right or wrong ways to be. We are who we are, and then, we are what life makes us.

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