A Point of True

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the subjective truth.

Category: Inward Outward

It’s my turn to toss

I couldn’t sleep last night.

Tossed for a bit, tried some deep breathing, decided to just lay in bed resting in the knowledge that sleep would arrive. An hour later – nothing.

My mind was overstimulated. One racing thought after another, sometimes together, often crisscrossing on a motorway built to support both traffic and speed. It has happened before. Five years ago when I was experiencing what I later found out was an anxiety disorder, came to know that it was anxiety and not a disease, and now see that it’s a feature of the human condition, not a malaise unless extremely distressing, I had struggled to sleep. On the third night of virtually no sleep, I decided to seek help, but that’s a story for a different day. Now was different too.

Over the years, I have worked out a routine to fall asleep. A spot of exercise during the day, no screen time for a few hours before bed, a nice shower, journaling, some light reading, and then mindful breathing – tired, switched off, refreshed, unhindered, gently occupied, and present. I pride myself on the ability to fall asleep at short notice. “How do you do it? We’ve been in the cab for a minute!” “I have a technique. I can fall asleep anywhere, anytime I want to.” Clearly, like with anything, there is a caveat. Last night, I wanted it too much.

I had a busy day – reading, working, speaking with people, writing, planning, briefing – and there were a fair few things left hanging and incomplete. People who hadn’t responded in time (they still haven’t), some gaffes that were as laughable as they were infuriating, and tasks that seem to expand as you think you have made headway. Each of these things is perfectly natural, but, yesterday, they were distressing. They were empowered by the weight of my expectation.

When I want something badly enough, I start to subject every step towards that goal to complex analysis. Expect. Think. Analyse. Reflect. Reiterate. Repeat. Having spent years in urban solitary confinement, I have for a long time perceived this process to be productive and reassuring. To my surprise (and occasional horror), I couldn’t be further from the truth if I sat on a comet blazing in the opposite direction for a few years. The weight of expectation is just toxic forecasting disguised as a gentle desire for the preferred outcome. It may seem innocuous. In a world of chaos, however, it isn’t.

There are a few specific mechanisms that govern the human condition. Birth, ageing, socialisation, and death. Each of us has our own methods (often abstractions) to process these stages. Good health, deep relationships, sound nutrition, some creative outlet, and a healthy sprinkle of Memento Mori do the job for me, but there is one nasty critter that always manages to do my nut in – narrative. You see, the more ‘artificially’ social I become – building a personal brand, showcasing my creative wares, demonstrating my skill – the more aware I am of every moment presenting an opportunity to write the story of me. I move from being the actor to the director – arranging, critiquing, deriving no satisfaction from what is an academic pursuit of the aesthetic.

Life, on the other hand, usually has other plans, because everyone else is playing their own darn movie in their head. “How can they? I’m the star of this show.” “No, you’re not. I am. So shut it and take a photo. 97 followers can’t go without liking a photo for this long. Don’t deprive them, you monster.”

So, I decided not to bother. “If I can’t sleep, I’ll lay there. If I still can’t sleep and I have no energy, I’ll look around and observe my environment, maybe drift, but not dive, into a gentle stream of thought. If I have some energy, I’ll get some work done.”

Little work happens in our imagination, but all distress takes place there. Desire, that unforgiving delusion that peace lies in specific achievement, has a way of confuddling our minds into believing that preoccupation is productive. That’s why I do it instead of getting something done. It’s easier. Problem with easy is that it’s difficult to stop. The mind decides to chug along, the wheel spinning rapidly as the hamster gets knocked about.

I sat up. I walked into the living room. And then I decided to write. A sentence is more than the articulation of thought. It’s the purging of clutter for the simple fee of creative effort. If there’s a better deal than that, I don’t know it.

Goals need attention, not preoccupation. The former is a function of ‘what do we have here?’ and the latter of ‘what will it feel like when it happens?’. What we choose could well be the difference between making progress and not sleeping very well.

It’s time for a nap. I wonder what it will feel like when I close my eyes for some much needed restful sleep full of incredible dreams.

Oh no.

Yeh toh Patang Hai (I tell the truth)

The truth won't set you free

Beyond the realms of reason

My mind does some odd things, just like everyone else’s, but not in the same way, because I’m special, just like everyone else is.

One of these quirks is the propensity to relay high-definition snippets of my childhood in response to events taking place in my theoretically adult life. Like a vivid dream that leaves us off centre, these graphic recreations of the past usually have me in a daze for a few seconds. I have tried to suppress these flashbacks and, as you may have guessed already, my attempts just created new flashbacks of me failing at containing the old ones. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve shifted focus to an achievable tactic – identifying the trigger, but it hasn’t always worked.Invoking this method in public creates a bemusing spectacle like the one you’re about to read.

I was in class at the university where I teach a public relations course. Halfway through discussing the creation of corporate narratives, a student raised her hand.2

“Sir”

“Yes” (reeling from the forced respect that was as unsettling as it was unforeseen)

“What about the truth?”

Now, on the surface, I thought this was a relatively innocuous question. We’d run through a few ethical frameworks, discuss modern perspectives on capitalism, and then erode said student’s self-righteousness to a level conducive to fleshing out a compliant and comfortable corporate career. My mind’s reaction was anything but that coherent.

“Yeh toh patang hai.”3

I lose my train of thought at the best of times but have honed my speaking to a point where I can pause to find my bearings. There are occasions, however, when the distractions within are louder than the actual conversation I’m having.

“Yeh toh patang hai!”

At this stage, I’m considering the onset of full-blown delirium. For as long as I can remember, I have never thought in Hindi nor have I worked on developing my kite-flying talent.4

I defaulted to my new adult mind management technique. “Let’s dig deeper and find that trigger.” The murmuring now has an accompanying visual. A boy, no more than 5-6 years old. He is sitting on a compound wall just outside a little house. It was in the suburbs, this house was, one of several identical constructions lined up like buns in an industrial kitchen. Opposite this row of breadboxes was a field flanked by high walls with broken shards of glass jammed into the concrete to ‘process’ trespassers. Rural India takes no prisoners.

Back to the boy. He’s perched on this wall tugging a thread that is attached to what seems to be a plastic bag. Oblivious to the scorching heat, his glee is evident as he sees the plastic bag tied by its handles fill up with hot air and soar as far as the thread would allow it. If imagination had a soul, then you’d see it in those eyeballs, at least until a passing neighbour decided to ‘fix’ the situation. In my view, there are two kinds of triggers behind the need to needle – not being happy about seeing ourselves unhappy and not being happy about seeing others happy. Both create the need to muck around. The decision to break this chid’s idyllic trance was upon us.

In a high pitched voice that matched the loudness of her attire, she chose to trust her instinct.

“Beta, theli ke saath kya kar rahe ho?”5

The boy looks at her. A rude awakening is unpleasant, more so when you’re sitting on a wall lost in thought, and even more so when your imagination is playing an active role in fueling this experience. For a moment his eyes widened, wondering if he was found out, caught in the act. She knew his secret. Surely he didn’t invent this pastime based on a real amateur sport, one that was extremely popular in this part of the country. It wasn’t because he couldn’t make friends, at least not as quickly as he could make them up. But, if all of this was true (it wasn’t, was it?), who cares? He was having fun. So, his brow furrowed and the widened innocent eyes narrowed like he knew something she didn’t.

“Yeh toh patang hai.”

The neighbour’s reaction began with bewilderment (either from acknowledging the subjectiveness of her reality or at the little boy’s apparent delusion) before moving to a smirk of condescension. Wee man wasn’t impressed.

Fueled by this historical moment of indignance, and quite frankly shocking indifference to a child’s pleasant daydream, my present-day self’s mouth motor began to chug.

“If you claim to tell the truth, you claim to know the truth. That assumption of knowledge means that you will at some point believe that your truth holds more water than someone else’s. Soon, an air of superiority will start to develop alongside the need to further the consumption of this ‘objective truth’. The fact of the matter is that bits of truth lie beneath and between the lines of nuance. It is nigh on impossible to assess at any point in time what an absolute truth looks like, much less devise ways to adhere to its all-encompassing construct. Honesty to the best of our ability given the context is the most we can push for, assuming that we ascribe an elevated status to this quality. Belief in absolute truth is and has been the foundation of the greatest atrocities we’ve known as a species. A fiery commitment to this truth is bigotry fuel and not liberation fodder. Let’s focus on honing our craft and rely on situational value-based judgments to offer balance.”

“Right.”

“I hope that made sense. Did I answer your question?”

“Okay.”

“Excellent. Good chat.”

Overreaction aside, I was relieved that the monologue was now complete. I acknowledge that the denial of the absolute truth is a circular argument, but prefer the forced subjectivity over the self-righteous perception of objectivity.

In my experience, having a set of values to abide by offers a far more efficient calibration of decisionmaking than any commitment to the ‘truth’. Life is neutral in its meaning, and any that we perceive is devised by our (over)developed brains through a combination of stimulus, memory, and conditioning. Buying into one specific truth or the notion of absolute transparency requires a level of knowledge that is perpetually aspirational.

Our universe is chaos, and every consciousness is finding ways to slice and dice this melange of stimuli, conviction, history, narrative, purpose, and vulnerability. Slice away all you will, please, but don’t let your aggressive hack interfere with my criss-cross cut. At the end of the day, we’re all just trying to find the truth.

The child attempts to whistle a tune before realising that whistling is not his thing.

“This ‘kite’ business is fun.”

Image courtesy: Aaron Burden on Unsplash

1.  Just because something has never worked doesn’t mean that it never will. Ask religion.

2. “It’s hand?” I’m not sure how gender-neutral writing works.

3. “But, this is a kite.” (in Hindi)

4. I don’t work on things that I might not do well. If you just thought ‘then why do you write?’, I hope your feet find the banana peel that begins your descent on the staircase to hell.

5. “Son, what are you doing with a bag?”

Dilated Reflections

In an altered state, people do different things. Some dance, some speak, some paint, and some ruminate. I write. Our mind is a web of synapses that trigger at random. These ‘murmurings’ could be signals from the subconscious, fears and dreams surfacing, or just plain misfires. Working out exactly what these are can take a combination of belief and awareness. The mind has funny ways. Here’s what mine did. 

Patterned Wallpaper

Photo by Armando Castillejos on Unsplash

Being head fucked constantly is a matter of perspective. It’s odd how the only way to overcome fear is through clarity and the only route to clarity is experience and to experience something you need to overcome fear so it’s not that odd really. The mind has funny ways, it can tire you out but only if you let it. And I’m starting to see the importance of a balance, of acknowledging enough to act on it without getting drawn into a self-indulgent whirlpool of thoughts. There is a clear demarcation between impulse and action. It is the prerogative or the disposition of the anxious to act on impulse. In fact, anxiety itself could be the fear of impulse, the fear of instantly acting on a whim.

Being in love with something and facing the absolute fear of losing it are equally powerful emotional sides of the same experience. The choice of which side to nurture is in your control and you’re best advised to pick the former. Everyone has choices. It’s the option you pick that ends up forming the tapestry of your life. And much like a tapestry or anything of beauty, flaws must exist with perfection, for perfection is made immortal by the presence of flaws, not their absence. While I’m constantly stressed out by ‘what if ‘and ‘what now’, the realization of what should now have been obvious is not lost on me. The ‘fear of being myself’ is tiring, perhaps borne out of the sense of frequent loss, perceived loss. The flipside, however, is the gratitude for the chance to experience the things you fear losing, things you were grateful to have. That gratitude and desire to experience can be liberating. It can be distressing too but that’s where an understanding of the self can play its part.

The navigation of every nook and cranny of your brain is not a goal and it is barely a notion. You can develop mastery over your approach and the choices you make, but never over all the chaos itself. Thinking from a place of ego is fraught with distress, an acute sense of self need not be sacrificed if you forsake pride. The very foundation of pride, after all, is narrative. And no narrative is realized without consumption. It must be told to subsist, reinforce itself through conversations, actualize itself through the devotion of its followers.

Self-deprecation, aggrandization, indulgence, or motivation are not that different. Each of these narratives can be real only if you let it be. You have to decide which one dominates. The author does not control the story, it’s in the perception of the story that his wiles transcend their existence as ‘tools of the trade’. Everyone has their own journey and it is important to recognize that. ‘Winning’ cannot be based on the notion of bettering someone else’s journey, it isn’t winning by virtue of being an imitation, a rendition, temporarily powerful or weak, of what already exists.

Learning new things, encountering fresh perspectives, and discovering the ways of being are integral parts of human life. There’s just so much to experience, But, where’s the rationale? Where do you stop? What is your anchor? My anchor is the belief that, left to your own devices, our state of mind is calm, aware, generous, and affectionate. Perhaps those are things that I am, perhaps they are things I wish to be. These musings are not the subject of this dialogue. The discomfort is.

A negative or positive mindset is firstly a matter of perception and secondly of disposition. Do you focus on the macro or the micro? In Auschwitz, for instance, efficiency would evoke very different connotations to what it does today. You have a choice to make. A decision about where you would like to be, and once that decision is made, a filter to work with. A lot of the distress you feel is the contrast between what you are like and what you (think you) should be like. That gap, that perceived difference, is what we find upsetting. What I am starting to see is that it’s not the consistency of circumstance that’s the goal, it’s the consistency of approach. People have different mindsets, different points of view. The comfort needs to be found in yourself.

It is funny how the fear is rarely of dying, but of living – living to the fullest, to the levels deep enough to hurt but light enough to waken. The fear isn’t of losing control, it’s of the reluctance to acknowledge control. It is in this surrender of your agency that primal systems get distressed. Our imagination is a personal landscape and requires tending to. It must be nurtured, acknowledged, and replenished. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t get enough of that, the stimulation of that level of debate. But small breaks change that. I like how experiences are accentuated by virtue of being punctuated.

It is important to stop thinking of life in terms of destinations, the purpose is what defines the journey. I feel odd sometimes, feel like this knowledge is commonplace or like everyone already knows all this, but that is a construct. Enlightenment or awareness, as we must call it, is a subject for the observed and not the observer. The notion of the ‘other’ might give us impressions but never insight. Much against my remonstrations, I have an insatiable thirst for philosophical inquiry. The reluctance to acknowledge this thirst is an antagonizer. For some reason, and perhaps this happens over time, we start, or I’ve started to fit into a template. It’s this need to stereotype, which is such a basic cog of human perception, that can act as both empowerer and crippler. The way to transcend this subversion is to acknowledge the vastness both within and without. We are but designed to ache for it, the experience.

Being able to articulate an imagination is all we have to offer for a larger consciousness. You cannot fully marvel at art without realizing how it feels to create art. Each of us sees things differently to the other, adding texture to this experience either by way of art i.e. the creation of something new or the addition of something to what already exists i.e perspective. The first realization is to acknowledge that what we’re observing is the manifestation of the internal environment. Assuming that being aware of your own space, your values, and what you think will make a difference is indulgent, so it’s an appreciation of what’s to come, of what you are creating constantly – that acceptance of specificity, neutrality and everything else in between – of embracing the desire of joint discovery that truly satiates the soul.

What are you made of?

It’s Wednesday. You’ve finished two days at your job. Conversations, work and the general humdrum rhythm of everyday life keep you occupied. Occasionally in moments of involuntary isolation, on a commute, in the washroom or within the first few minutes of reaching home, a thought crosses your mind.

Concrete landscape

Beyond building blocks and space

‘What am I doing with my life?’

 What you are doing at this point is reviewing the quality of your narrative, wondering if this would really make for a great story. If you have ever used a search engine, you know that the answer you want is almost entirely dependent on the question you ask. That, dear reader, is the point of this piece.

There must be more to this.

 What do I mean by ‘more’? How much ‘more’ and of what? What is ‘this’ anyway?

Our constant search for meaning can be frustrating, but it is what has kept this species moving along, this inherent drive to discover, create and exceed. To sate this need, we use relationships, science, religion work and anything else that might ease our need for understanding. We swap behaviours (“my resolution is…”), appearances (“a complete makeover sounds great!”), and schools of thought (“I used to be an atheist, but now I’m agnostic”).

Preoccupation and to some extent philosophical enquiry, however, are just ways to navigate the mire. And before you can traverse a journey, it may be important to ask what you’re working with. Perhaps the more pertinent question to ask is ‘what am I made of?’

 Flesh and bones or heart and soul, what exactly am I made of?

 Our sentience, power of agency and imagination differentiate us from other beings. You are not a self-fulfilling prophecy or a narrative seeking to reach a fruitful end. You are a person. A unique entity, made unique by conditioning, practice, memories, and imagination. Your senses are constantly at work analyzing your physical environment and your social context to create a picture of the world as you see it, your ‘reality’. Yes, physical limitations can change the way you explore aspects of your life, as can financial, social and emotional constraints, but that only adds to the uniqueness.

‘Nothing is impossible’, they said.

The social web has reduced fifteen minutes of fame to a microsecond spent on a small screen flying beneath an unsuspecting thumb, a phenomenon that hasn’t just warped our perception of success but magnified our capacity for comparison. This also instills in us some interesting conundrums. A moderately accurate understanding of ability is combined with a burning need to transcend our context.

If you’re still with me, pay close attention. Validation does not determine your relevance. Ambition does. A desire to understand yourself does. The intrinsic curiosity for life does. Know that not having an answer still means that you asked the question. Meaning isn’t linear, it’s the process of discovery. Being constantly connected has meant that our minds are in overdrive, having us fret over falling behind in a race we never signed up for, that we aren’t even running. There’s no need to run. Think about where you are just now, sat at home unwinding, traveling to meet a friend or taking a break at work. Take a moment and remember the last joke you told or heard or the last story that made you think. And now, take a deep breath, and ask yourself, ‘what am I made of?’

Leave an answer in the comments. I’d love to have a chat.

Fighting with inspiration

Insights. Audience insights. Stereotypes backed by retrofitted research.

“Heck, I don’t want to be a number, I’m a person.”

Man in jacket stargazing; looking for inspiration

Inspiration. Is it out there?

Guess what? You’re both. And when you combine the infinite (perceived) complexity and emotional spectrum of being a person with the drudgery of being a number, like capitalism seeks to do with resources (sometimes known as people), you end up with a very different beast. Enter the creative foot soldier. This is the ‘intrapreneur’ who thinks innovatively, raising the bar each day, engaging people ‘internal’ and ‘external’ alike, all with a smile.

Bosses, workloads, unemployment, marriage, singledom, weight, the future, the past, what you want to eat for dinner and not having any dinner to eat, each of these is an equally valid, prevalent, and qualified stressor. If any of these bother you, read on. If they don’t, please send me a recent photograph of you so I can build an altar to worship at.

Now that we’ve set context, let’s get to the point. Drudgery is a non-negotiable. It’s as intrinsic to the human condition as death and taxes. This can be quite difficult to tackle, especially for sentient beings with a cerebral cortex capable of fueling a rather fertile imagination.

‘Sometimes, I want to just give up, but I can’t. And that’s just difficult.’

Is there really a way out of the rat race? Will we ever find our purpose? Too frustrated with your current situation and too scared to try anything else – the Stockholm syndrome that binds you to your monotony. It can seem like the grass on the other side is just disappointment waiting to be trod on. Go online and you stumble upon thousands of stories of those who ‘made it’. Endless and seemingly scientific pontification about grit and luck peddling a story built in hindsight to a crowd hungry for meaning.

‘How will I ever get through this? Is this all there is?’

 I have an answer or at least I think I do. Inspiration. The problem, in my view, is in trying to stay ‘motivated’. Motivation, you see, is a stimulus, a precursor to an action, maybe a catalyst if ability and willingness are assumed. It can easily be suppressed by exhaustion, ridicule masquerading as jest (a rather common show of ‘affection’ in modern ‘friendships’) and a sudden change of plans or goals. Inspiration, however, is a process, one that creates an environment. It is a state of mind that with enough practice you can will yourself into, something a sportsperson might call ‘being in the zone’. This is a space where sentences seemingly string themselves together, people react favorably, your life starts to seem more productive and you start to seem, well, the limitations of language strike again, happy.

Inspiration (noun) – the process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something, especially to do something creative
Motivation (noun) – A reason or reasons for acting or behaving in a certain way

The best part about inspiration is that it isn’t an end goal as much as it is a conduit to constant improvement. The order of greatness or inspiration isn’t a chicken-and-egg problem. An inspired mind does great things. Greatness doesn’t bring inspiration, but is accentuated by inspiration.

So how does any of this work? Simple. It is focus and repetition that make up the mastery of any practice, and inspiration is no different.

I’m not expecting you to waltz from depression into creative mania. Start small and start easy. You are not defined by what has happened to you but by what you’ll do with it. Look to begin your day with being thankful for what you have. If you don’t think you have much, thank yourself for your sanity. Thank yourself for the fact that you can read what’s been written here and derive meaning from a set of symbols on a screen. It’s not an ability you should take lightly.

Let the emptiness and pointlessness of what you’re feeling hit you like a truck, life’s best experienced that way. When you’re going to sleep and the noise within pushes you to open your eyes, don’t. For another five minutes, let it overwhelm you, feel every inch of your body and soul ache with the random chaos you’ve grown weary of. And then, use that base to build something. Wake up knowing that you will isolate your state of mind, your inspired state of mind, from your circumstances, because you really can’t control the latter.

The qualities you need to realise your vision for a successful life – attention, inspiration, strength and endurance – are finite. These also grow through practice, the benefits compounding over each of day of effort, a wall built brick by brick. Lay a brick down.

To you who wanted to say something in that meeting today but didn’t

To you who actually quite likes your job, but won’t say so for fear of standing out

To you who doesn’t like starting sentences with ‘here’s my idea’ or ‘I’m good at’

To you who wakes up wondering ‘really? Is this it?’

Keep fighting. Stay inspired.

It really is the truest statement of anarchy against an increasingly dystopian world narrative.

The unbearable virtue of cleaning

The uncluttered comes to a head

The uncluttered comes to a head

The mind has a funny way of racing at the quietest of times. It’s almost some sort of thermodynamic balance between the internal and the external. It is in these moments that I’ve told myself to focus on a hobby, something that you do for the sake of doing something and perhaps, in some cases, even to the point of mastery.

Food is one area I’d found solace in – both cooking and eating. Creating food can be quite a rewarding experience, especially for the pedantic. For years, the solace of creating an elaborate meal helped immerse the mind. The absence of a kitchen in my current digs has put paid to that option.

There we are then. Under the sheets wanting to make more of ‘quality leisure’, especially now having read about the benefits of focused recreation. ‘It rehabilitates the mind’ (excellent!), ‘invigorates the soul’ (serious?), and ‘supercharges creativity’ (where do I sign up?).

The desire to do everything and the motivation to do nothing can, however, throw up a fair few obstacles. If you’ve ever been there, you’ll associate with the glorious daydreams of success and the catatonic stupor even the thought of getting yourself some water could induce. And then, looking around, you come to a point. Not quite a halt, but not quite a path you associate with continuity or discovery.

That’s when it happened. ‘Why don’t you clean?’ (this is internal dialogue, please be rest assured that there are more poignant moments, it’s in my best interest to believe that). But cleaning? Surely there’s a better alternative. Cleaning is ephemeral, repetitive, time-consuming and requires focus to do well, hardly the sort of vision for your afternoon that drives the mind to sensorial overload. ‘Isn’t that exactly what you need?’ (see, I told you we could be poignant).

I stick on a podcast (This American Life, great soundtrack for catatonic stupor) and begin to clean. First, the bin bags that reveal the oddness of every object you’ve interacted with during the week, a repository of the residue your life is leaving behind. Bin bags all done, I move to the dreaded Level 2 – clothes. ‘Should I fold this like the laundry does or just go with the sideways fold?’ Mildly disturbed that this discourse is even taking place, I proceed to just take a call and grab life by the proverbial danglers. One folding style for the shirts and the casual, more home-baked approach for the bottoms. Eclectic!

Halfway through I start to feel more productive. It helps that the room looks a lot less cluttered and, over time, I’ve realized that this always has a knock-on effect on the mind. I was speaking to a friend a couple of weeks ago. This was the kind of friend who would categorize Sisyphean conundrums as ‘chat’. Discussing the monotony that comes with adult life in the capitalist world, he proceeded to reference the Gita. “Sometimes you just do things for the virtue of doing them. Not everything will have an end.”

That’s what cleaning means to me. Simple, transitory, immersive and rewarding. Our minds are still in the process of being understood – biochemical, intuitive, emotional and rational in equal measure. There’s little we can do but do something.  Do something for the virtue of doing it, the unbearable virtue of conscious monotony. Something for the virtue of having life in your veins and a soul thriving on the possibility of an intriguing construct.

So, get out from under the sheets, go fold a shirt, straighten out some books, and do it without an end in sight.

I’d say more, but those clothes aren’t going to sort themselves.

P.S. For those of you who can’t contain your curiosity, I chose to go with the laundry-style fold. 

Confined

A recurring dream. One of being buried alive. Distress. Anxiety. Sleepless nights. The fear of being back to a place where helplessness was the norm and strength the basic catalyst of average. Exhaustion.

Nervous breakdowns can be difficult. Any breakdown can. One held within, so visceral, however, can take its toll. The toll becomes addictive. Withdrawal symptoms from grief, when happiness is the end.

Smashed in the face by a cricket ball. 22 yards down from a trundler, a thousand miles away from being in the present. Lost in thought, the body pays a price. Fast forward two weeks.

Slight shifts in perception. Helplessness turned on its head is empowerment. The feeling of mattering so little moves to the feeling of being able to do anything you can, without judgment, without consequence. The end becomes the means. Happiness is a state of mind.

Smash it to all parts. A hundred off 50 balls. Never before. Never before had even 10 been crossed with such limited anxiousness.

A recurring vision. One of being free. Devoid of psychological poverty, away from the depravity of self-assessment, rigid and unforgiving.

You’re not confined. Only constrained. The world may not be your oyster. But it is your world.

© 2020 A Point of True

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑