Thoughts

The thoughts always come at night. As if they know that by keeping me from sleep I can’t purge myself of them. 

They’re not mine, they aren’t me. They have their own ways and their own motivations and for some reason they have set their sights on my potential. 

Which begs the question: Why would they want to destroy that?

Are they things of self benefit? Self preservation? Like a parasite? Like a virus? 

What is so valuable, and of sustenance, in the potential of humans that such things would seek so relentlessly to destroy it? To detract from it? They don’t operate in terms of my best interest, otherwise I’d be able to rest alongside them.

I don’t believe they are a result of my silly little brain trying to help itself and stubbing its toe in the process. I think that explanation is an attempt by the stringent human to explain something as anything other than intangible to our methods of ‘understanding’. An imperceptible negative affect that can only be felt by its host. Something that may not live, but operates, outside of the human being, and through it. Like a parasite. Like a virus.  

Looking at them doesn’t work. Trying to articulate them doesn’t either. 

They evade reason. They transpire regardless. If they were things of reason, if they were me, I would decree that they left my constitution, and they would listen, if they were mine. 

How do you fight something you can’t touch? How do you move towards a light you can’t see? 

How are you to ever know what the correct choice is when that decision lies only within you, written in a font of uncertainty? 

Why does it feel like I’m waiting for something to happen, and so actively doing nothing?

What do I think could possibly happen if I don’t leave my self-made safety cage of isolation and distraction?

A place, that ironically, is far more dangerous to the truth than anything outside of it could ever possibly be. 

Flowers wilt without water. Humans wither without purpose. Things I see as clues, not facts of ‘little significance’ to which I’m blinded by familiarity. A familiarity that becomes more painful for me to witness everyday. No, magic isn’t real, and yet we live on a floating rock in outer space?

In our intricacy, we require multiple life forces to continue on. 

We need food, for energy. We need air, for sustenance. We need water, for cleansing. 

We need the earth. Every second of everyday that we are operant on it. 

We need the other living things that breathe here too. We are so, unintuitively fragile, if we consider our existence to be in its entirety, about continuance.

And all, for what? I think we all know that. We all know this question somewhere inside. At varying levels of unreachable depth. Why all of this? 

Maybe you choose to abdicate from the question, like I did. It’s possible you know the lack of answer would be too painful if you acknowledged there was one. Too difficult. Or maybe the thoughts have also convinced you of otherwise. 

But there is another life force beyond survival. That is the why. That is the for what. That underlies it all. There is no basis by our own logic to the existence of something without reason. 

And our inability to find it is withering us away. The world has become a distraction from the fact that we are failing to find clarity in our answer. 

The world, and its noise, and its hatred, and its posturing, that is the driving force of the thoughts that won’t allow me to rest. 

Because I refuse them. I find no comfort in a plastic smile. I refuse to believe I was given the capacity to live and to feel joy simply for the cost of pain and pressure. That is the cycle we have found ourselves in, is it not? 

All I can say with clarity is that your existence is the only objective truth, everything else is an attempt at explanation. And by our design, by being the chair of our own government, our truth can be determined by us alone. Not by anyone or anything else. Do not give credence to baseless reasons that do not belong to you.

What is this exponential growth of violent demand for majority conclusion? 

Why might it matter to you or somebody else that your opinions align? It manifests to me like starvation. For validation not yet found from within. Something in people knows such opinions are baseless, which is why they don’t feel satisfied living life quietly within them.

I have no interest in warping the truth of others to fit or to fortify my own. Perhaps I would fall foul to it too, if I thought conclusively I knew what that truth was. But all I see is a dull pain. Need and hunger. And I feel it too. Starvation for the life force that denotes this existence. Desperately holding on to anything that feels like ground I could plant my feet on. Identity. Opinions. And how wicked, that these transient things appear as anchors of safety in self, when it’s anchors that sink to the waterbed. 

Don’t grasp at things. Don’t hold anything too tightly. Let things come and go. Just as you were made, to come and go. For what is truly living, beyond survival, if not experience? Learning? Making something with the tools you were given, the thing you are that is designed to make. To do. Would you consider a clock broken, if it didn’t tell you the time? Would you feel something was wrong, if your clothes came out of the dryer wet? 

By our own logic, when things are made to do, they should do those things. What are you not doing that you were given the capacity to? What feels right? Where did you get lost? Was it when thoughts from the world started telling you how you should spend your days rather than trust in the consciousness of your design? 

What could you perceive with your eyes? What could you listen to? What could you make with your hands? Taste in your mouth? Where could you go in your mind? Move with your body? What could you ask? Reason? Answer?

What can you transmit to others through the power of your words? What are you capable of? What were you made to do?

Because I know I wasn’t made to do this. I feel it almost all of the time. I feel the difference between existing and living. I feel the difference between abdication and endeavour. And I don’t see death as the greatest tragedy, I see the withering of a life that already had everything it needed, to do what it came here to do, as the greatest tragedy of all. And I’m watching it happen with bound hands and a gagged mouth that I tied myself. Because it’s my choice to do, or to not. It always is, no matter what the thoughts say.

Don’t trap yourself in a safety cage that keeps you from your truth. And I address myself here too. Make no mistake, I don’t believe I have the answers. I have long accepted that I don’t. Which sometimes feels like a blessing, and others a curse.