Trial

Trying to accomplish the impossible may be one of the most human things to do. Not that attempting the impossible itself is natural to humanity, rather the courage and determination that prompt such attempt comprise our uniqueness. 

Fortune telling is, in a way, one of those impossibilities we often deceive ourselves to be achievable. Yet, what would become of our world if the future was as accessible to our consciousness as the past? Why try to accomplish anything then, if the future is detailed in pages of great books, because all marches onward to atrophy anyhow? Why bother continuing towards the crumpled, desolate void the laws of the universe dictate to be inevitable? 

We manage anyways. We tell ourselves that somehow, signs and inclinations grant us a chance at playing peekaboo with the future. We lure ourselves into believing the special senses that “came” to us can bring forth the outcome of a situation important to our causes; then allow that belief, eventually disappoint, or uplift us.

A week’s time isn’t short, neither is it long. For me, it’s a wait that I’ve anticipated this entire summer, and the summer before, and will the summers to come. It’s knowing that eventually I will go through that door, and the passiveness and ache, and onto the next stage. It’s comparable to the convicted before a trial, for the date is set and the only thing left for them, is the time before the inevitable.

Not that I’m attempting to predict what’s to come. For I know the outline, after some repetition, that I will be back at school, and the next chapter is unveiling, just like so many chapters before, as they revealed the opportunities I’ve had.

Or maybe I am foolishly trying to predict the unpredictable, scheduling things without having actual control over the precession anyways. They tangle and ravel in my mind, only substantiating my anxiety for the things to come.

As if I’m waiting for my trial. A trial that will inevitably arrive, a week later.

Am I ready?

Soon

The human spirit is incredibly resilient. 

Though they say hope is above all thing the most dangerous, as it gives the meek courage, the weak strength; yet its fragility is at the same time marvelously apparent, for the future is at its core, unpredictable. And when that delicate yet powerful gem breaks in desperate hours, with it explodes devastating shocks.

Yet we somehow live, because, as humans, we like to make sense of things. Because when we can reduce a situation down to the most understandable forms, the most explainable, we can endure the cruelty of its reality.

I’d like to pause sometimes, to think about what tomorrow holds. It’s exciting isn’t it? The possibility to move beyond the present, to welcome the next state of being. The next stage of our metamorphosis. 

More than anything, at this very moment, I’d like to pop out of this cocoon and fall into the dubious hug of tomorrow.

Connection

It’s hard to fathom the reality of things at a place where clarity isn’t the virtue. While definitive answers, being extreme as they are, stop the mind from wandering down the dangerous path of what-ifs, being left without one isn’t as big of a curse as I had once imagine it to be. 

Am I being truthful in saying that I don’t have the answer to some of the questions I’ve been plagued with since that night? (It’s excruciating to even attempt putting a name to what it was, which maybe why questions crawl through my mind with such savage rage.) Albeit the pain that I’d like to think I’ve suffered, I’d be lying if I say I don’t know why I’ve been in the same gloomy, blue state for the past couple of months. 

What wonder is the connection between everything in this world? Be it human interactions, chemical bonds, food chains, or economical relations, we can’t escape inter-connectivity. Not our persons, not the atoms in our physical forms, not the way we perceive the world and consume the world.

Memory is a tricky thing. Even though I’ve thought time and time again that, my memory has been compromised by my own choosing of intoxication, certain things that I’ve thought slipped out of my perception, will still resurface in my memory. Like a disease that you don’t remember contracting, but the consequence will still scorch your body, reminding you of the ravenous nature of its being. 

Maybe it is a blessing after all that, as a human being with a functional memory, I don’t get to forget the people who’ve influenced me and touched me and connected with me. I will forever remember that little gesture, that playful wink, that illuminating conversation, even in the darkest of night, or in the brightest of day. 

And of course, the emotions attached to such connection, the pain or the joy, eventually find its way back to me, after moments, days, or years after it had happened. 

I guess I’d rather… not remember as well as I do now.