No tags yet.
So.
It's 1 am.
Fine it's 1.45.
That eerie sound of nothingness has become less of a stranger and more of a familiar, worn-out security blanket. You know, the kind that your mom would give you for your eighth birthday and would still manage to come out of the wash in one whole stubborn piece.
That pepperoni pizza that I've ordered and happily devoured from Dominoes as a Friday night treat is long gone and I have no regrets.
Yet.
The air in the room takes a mind of it's own - it solemnly hangs with a heavy sigh sewn between every couple wisps of breezes that decide to occupy my small den-like room. Sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor nursing a cup of Barry's tea to its cold slumber for the third time in a row. It's safe to say that my trusty old kettle has definitely seen better days but man, that tea. That tea though. Each sip leaves my tongue wanting more and my insides feel warm and homely. My body feels like a homely space once again. While staring off into space, the familiar tide of thoughts makes their daily marathon down the dusty tracks of my mind and this time, I let them.
"...and this time,
I let them"
Exhaustion has suddenly become my anthem for the past couple of months. It's that annoying feeling of a cute lazy meets ''do I even care any more ?". Our minds have this strange knack for wanting to always be in a state of motion. To be constantly chirping away at any serene thoughts that are dutifully snoring quietly under our makeshift mind-frames of a pseudo-reality. Suddenly the very thought of silence leaves a footprint of fear peeking right behind the sliding glass doors of my mind. As if in silence, my minds will then be forced to gaze on the somewhat organised chaos I have gladly made for it.
If I were to place a bet on whether Usain Bolt, the world's greatest sprinter known to man or my thoughts would win a sprint race both would be very strong close contenders. It's hard to figure out if I am a willing participant to this sudden athleticism my mind so willingly adopts but I've learnt that the caged raging mind leaves no room for polite talk or decorum and will rather choose to let loose only if we let it.
So, I'm sitting there.
Thinking.
Just thinking.
I allow this numb feeling of uncertainty to wrap its jaded arms around me and for a minute I feel stumped. Then fear kicks its leg rudely through the door and for a multitude of minutes, the silence amplifies the numb sensation.
So, I continue to sit there, clutching my stone cold mug of neglected tea.
Before this starts to sound like the morose soundtrack of a mopey, sad 1950's forgotten sitcom, I'd like to first say this. In this moment and for many moments to come, I will forever continue to question my reality. I think inherently, we all find ourselves approaching this monolithic monument moment of questioning. The art of questioning is a slippery, slimy kaleidoscope of a realm. I think it's great to question things. To reconstruct ideas and let go of mindless, senseless consumption. For some questions, the answer requires a simple transaction - I make an effort and search for the answer and soon enough, the answer arrives like a Christmas present on my doorstep and it's awesome. When questions I have are answered in a timely fashion, it truly is a great way to make my day. For other questions *sighs internally*, the answer knows both no ends and no beginnings but rather relying on the constant vacuum of our itty bitty brains to rummage through the all the conforming-status quo-self inflicting ways our society has conceptualised for us to think.
the way we think
the way we operate
move
breathe
behave
It all in some way congregates quite neatly under the world of conformism right underneath our noses.
The cumulus clouds of autonoms- where slowly we all want to look like carbon cut copies of the same so-called '' idealistic beauty''. Where even our minds are stifled to the point where we are completely and totally oblivious to the subtle sweet hypnotism that wafts through our nostrils feeding every single day. Every day, we hand a permission card to our consciousness to become hypnotised by our own limited concepts. Sitting in my room, I sat cross-legged on my bedroom floor holding on to my mug like it was life belt of eternity. And for once, I felt my mind and my soul taking a humble seat too. And as I'm sitting there, I let myself slowly unhook from temporary illusion and slowly let gravity play its game of frefall. The honest truth is that we create the world and what we know of it. The "I wishes and the I would've" of yesterday seem to twirl around in my mind. I don't know that I can trust myself to say that I won't utter these phrases again.
I want to care and I want to be passionate but hell, my mind is doing a fantastically terrible job at letting my fears call dibs in the driver seat of my mind. So I sharpen the blades of my pen and let my thoughts bleed through the paper, through the table down the table legs, making lagoons and tributaries on my bedroom floor.
I write.
"The honest truth is that we create the world and what we know of it......
Every day, we hand a permission card to our consciousness to become hypnotised by our own limited concepts."
And as I write, I unravel the intricate fibres of my exterior and leave them out to dry. For someone that has allowed the words of the world to latch onto my skin and make homes in my mind and my safe place, I assume the role of excavator - looking to my mind, body and soul as excavation site, scouring through the rubble that I have allowed to accumulate. As I write, I enter the right place - my writing space.
Find your space and reconnect with yourself. Construct your thoughts, formulate your opinions on your own without the weight of someone's criticism and idea about what they think you should be. What do you want for yourself ? What is your vision?
Find your right space and take the time to discover who you are when no one is looking.