The romantic in me likes to believe in fate and destiny and all the things that can't be deciphered but just experienced. So I decide to close my eyes and give in, let go of the strings that hold me to reason and my understanding of life. I decide to stop looking at the obvious and start touching the unknown and the unexplored instead. I run my fingers over the textured surfaces and start to feel my way around the maze. In my head, it all feels right, like I belong, like there's nowhere else that I would rather be. But even here the old patterns re-emerge and no matter how different I would like things to be, they slowly start to feel the same. The old crevices give birth to familiar reactions, pulling me back to those confined spaces once again. The walls spring up around me with a life of their own and I begin to wonder why I expected things to be different this time around.
Whether you walk on the moon blindfolded or with your eyes wide open, it's still the moon that you're walking on. I used to think that hope could sometimes be a dangerous notion until I realized that just being audacious was enough to set one spiralling into the abyss. The audacity to believe that this time your particular carbon composition will align with that of another unique make-up and create a new entity. The audacity to believe that the remnants of the days gone by remain safe behind the lines drawn. All the yesterdays rolled up like stale newspapers and tossed into the fire that you lit with only the vacant sky as witness. The ashes married to the earth beaneath your feet as you moved on to distant shores on a different plane. The audacity to believe that the past can never catch up with you as long as you measure out enough time and distance between that ocean of regret and your determined new self. And maybe it really doesn't. The past probably stays right back where you left it, like a well-trained and obedient pet, and it's you who recreates it unwittingly and almost pathologically in a desperate attempt to hold on to your roots, a slave to your immigrant DNA.
How many different ways can one person perform anyway? No matter how hard you try, you end up playing the same role like a hack badly hamming your way from one set of limbs to the next. Yet you soldier on, ceaselessly and determinedly, steadying your gaze on the prize you've set for yourself... That elusive happy ending you've always desired, or rather the plateau of contentment you long for because you never want this story to end. Except you seem to have forgotten that you can only truly begin when certain other stories come to a screeching, grinding halt.
Whether you walk on the moon blindfolded or with your eyes wide open, it's still the moon that you're walking on. I used to think that hope could sometimes be a dangerous notion until I realized that just being audacious was enough to set one spiralling into the abyss. The audacity to believe that this time your particular carbon composition will align with that of another unique make-up and create a new entity. The audacity to believe that the remnants of the days gone by remain safe behind the lines drawn. All the yesterdays rolled up like stale newspapers and tossed into the fire that you lit with only the vacant sky as witness. The ashes married to the earth beaneath your feet as you moved on to distant shores on a different plane. The audacity to believe that the past can never catch up with you as long as you measure out enough time and distance between that ocean of regret and your determined new self. And maybe it really doesn't. The past probably stays right back where you left it, like a well-trained and obedient pet, and it's you who recreates it unwittingly and almost pathologically in a desperate attempt to hold on to your roots, a slave to your immigrant DNA.
How many different ways can one person perform anyway? No matter how hard you try, you end up playing the same role like a hack badly hamming your way from one set of limbs to the next. Yet you soldier on, ceaselessly and determinedly, steadying your gaze on the prize you've set for yourself... That elusive happy ending you've always desired, or rather the plateau of contentment you long for because you never want this story to end. Except you seem to have forgotten that you can only truly begin when certain other stories come to a screeching, grinding halt.
No comments:
Post a Comment