There’s a certain beauty in being lost. The urgency of time seems to vanish when you have absolutely no idea of where you’re supposed to go, and there’s no one expecting you anywhere. You’re just wondering around, looking for clues, praying for light, and in the midst of despair, a kind of peace comes along. There’s no place here, what were you expecting? It’s the comfort of failure I’ve so often thought about. Pressure is off once you fail.
But I always tell myself that I cannot lose what I don’t have. Almost getting it doesn’t count. When I sit on my couch, wrapped in a grey blanket that shields me from this mild Californian winter, I always reach the same conclusion: to hell with all of this. To hell with the broken promises, the back-stabbings, the mistakes, the unfulfilled dreams, the roadblocks that diverted me to this unknown road I’m currently in.
To hell with the ingratitude and the disposable nature of my existence. Don’t miss your boat, it’s leaving now. At what point do you reconcile the violence in your heart? At what point do you stop being a giver, tired of never getting anything back?
Never. Giving is what you do without expecting anything back. I’d rather be the giver that is constantly taken for granted than to change my nature and become bitter. I’d rather keep banging my head against the wall and always start and try again than to be a cynic who doesn’t believe in anything.
I’d rather be fooled by the people I love than being suspicious of them.
And so this wondering will continue because the perception of time is vanishing. I might drown with my demons, but I won’t drink the water.