This moment’s been a while in the coming. I’m glad I’ve stumbled into it, and along with it, the realization that I am my own muse. The dots, as has been famously said, will seem to connect in retrospect, but I will still have to deal with the absurdness that is the moment that is hurtling towards me with each of its kind I leave behind. I can choose to grapple with the neutrality of its meaninglessness and waste the moments that succeed each moment in constructing a reality that is with or against me, OR I can choose to live in the action. I can choose to execute, to face, to reconcile, and make my moves.
I am not sure if this is an open secret that I’ve just come unto, but I feel that I have lived several years with the brittlest of confidence. I have never sought praise (and have therefore been graceless in receiving compliments) as I have kept my own counsel and supply on that front, but a single criticism and it would be met with vengeance and destructibility turned outward. But I, quite suddenly, found myself thrust hard and so fast into the fact that I was barely anything that I imagined of myself, and the entire labyrinth of stories that I had told myself about me came tumbling down on my head. The responsibility of it was too hard to handle, so I dived into my past to extort the skeletons in my closet. I blamed them- I sat for months with each of those decayed corpses, chiding, scolding, and howling my heart out when they never responded with any reassurance. One by one they tumbled out- each a thought I had put away in procrastination and inability to deal with. Memories stepped out to haunt me, and snapped at my feet as I awkwardly stood in the nakedness of my knowledge that… I was human after all. After everything that I thought independence would help me break free of, I found out that I had been dependent on them all along, in my reactions and in the way I dealt with the world. How apt to describe myself as having been a prisoner of my own making.
Words that I would never let anybody, let alone myself, associate with my image of me (frustration, broken, lonely) became a mainstay, and every moment I fought it from taking over my worldview and life. This isn’t my story of vulnerability or heroism. This is my moment of pride. My personal bolt of lightning, with Eureka scribbled over it. I look back and I see that I braved to descend into every level of personal hell as Goddess Inanna did, never realizing the courage that it took, only taking a note of the vulnerability of the moment. Nobody could’ve destroyed me as I then feebly worried they would, as I had already stripped myself down to scraps, barely holding off the auction.
All my journey would be in futile if I laid claim to wholesomeness yet. I have my moments- like the other day when I was sitting on the lawn and I looked to my left and a thought ran through my mind telling me that for all my expanse of thoughts, memories and ideas, I was, in reality, limited by body. I ended at the very point my tips of my finger ended- with sharp exactness, no give or take a few more measures of space. A part of me waited with bated breath for another part of me to descend on myself in wrath. To tell me off for my negativity in feeling limited- not I! Right? But it never came. I looked at my hand, and the green grass below and smiled at the separateness. I looked at my blue kurti and smiled. I looked to my right, and I could distinctly feel that there was a me and there was the rest of the world, but instead of disassociating with the latter, I felt like I was a part of it.