• opia__ 6w


    I think the hardest part to growing up is understanding the difference between a full stop and a semi colon, understanding the placement of the two, under the shadow of the countless misplaced commas from before. It makes a difference, the fine line between correction and in-correction is your deep seated instinct of self-preservation, as it battles the part of you that so desperately wants to belong - to someone; to someplace; for some purpose; with some reason.

    Some days, I want to belong so desperately that I forget asking why I want to belong at all. I have spent so much of my life pretending that I don’t wish to belong anywhere, out of my fear of disappointment, that now I can’t help wondering if I even deserve to belong, if I even need to belong.

    They say it is better to have tried and failed than to have not tried at all, but how do you take the first step forward when the caveman within you, the one that learnt of the fire being hot by burning his own hand, asks you to center your path on the well-worn route, instead? Self-preservation is a selfish, ungrateful messiah; it is the point where rationality meets genealogy and definitions of subjectivity curl around reasonability in a way that results in an undebatable argument in favour of objectivity. But then again, how do you draw the line between subjectivity and objectivity in a matter that prides itself on having obliterated the paradigms of sanity for even the most sane of all? How do you reduce this intangibility to mere variables of cogency?

    Fear has a way of birthing an inertia you can’t really help rationalising; if the ghosts of your past have enough lessons to brag of, if your ‘now’ has never left you bereft of a reason to doubt the very dependability of dependence, then how do you bring yourself to take a leap off the cliff so many before you jumped off of, banking on the fact that some net will magically manifest itself in the handful of moments that follow, at least long enough to break your fall?
    How do you bring yourself to believe in anything but the warning signs sticking up like sore thumps, around the mangled fence juxtaposed against the certain fall, telling you that the very thing you want is blind enough to cheat you, deep enough to drown you, transient enough to leave you and powerful enough to break you?

    The line between doubt and belief is an abyss that likes to stare back with its taunting gaze, its fingers curl and unfurl in a beckoning motion, hypnotising you, mesmerising you, but how do you ignore the threat of the unknown, as it stares you in the face, long enough to differentiate a fear born of pathology from the one born of intuition?