One thing I’ve noticed of late is that we love to hate ourselves.
Every worry, every plaguing demon presents itself as a self-fulfilling truth, and a penetrative one at that. It strikes like a sharp fork from the aether – those gnawing, indescribable feelings of ineptness, insufficiency, and oncoming failure that are unwelcome, rampant, and perhaps ever-present to the emotionally intelligent thinker – but they are not inevitable. Perhaps just as relevantly, they present themselves through myriad of behaviour – chewing fingers, over-cleaning, under-eating; or maybe general deflated apathy. A sneaking detriment, identifiable only to seeing eyes. At least to some extent, the scrutinisation of important aspects of life considered unachieved or lacking pervades the endeavour of all other human experience. Many people mourn the course of their life to where it has led them now – a loathing for decisions that chartered them through learning, growing, and tests, without the reward of financial luminance. I say hurrah! sirs. Celebrate the present and allow yourself the space. To inhabit in the present is to understand your peace – not for prize or place or money but for loving what is here. For all choices that you’ve made, you seem to be alive here still, reading words that can disperse a theorem eating at your truth; that damn old grass just could be greener if you’d just turned left not right.
We could talk much more on this subject but no more shall be written tonight.