Sometimes I feel like a sodding mess, sometimes I feel like I could give it my all. Sometimes when emotions get carried into the workplace, I feel like I should create instead of manage, and sometimes when I’m resting, I think I should be working.
Life was neatly compartmentalised, until one day, compartments weren’t enough.
I didn’t title this post “How do I pick up the pieces”, simply because I know I have to, or I will; it’s in my DNA to face forwards, or meekly accept that I’m not so special that the rest of the world will wait for me. Everything moves forward whether you want to or not.
But some times, I wish I could just stay here in my own filth. To not move, and not become whatever new and improved version I’m supposed to become. Maybe I don’t want to rush it, because I’m still learning from whatever inertia I’ve been jolted out off. Ironically, by staying inert.
Maybe it’s a method to misery, maybe it’s putting my emotions under a microscope. Maybe it’s rationalising as a coping mechanism.
But let me tell you, music’s a lot more visceral now. Which is weird because I stopped feeling to stop hurting.
I stopped feeling to stop hurting.
And yet, when the zeitgeist takes over, when just the right notes go together, in the intensity that pulls the cord in your spirit, and the howls of madmen take over, it’s the type of empathetic agony, that while we’re alone in our filth, we’re not alone in dealing with filth. It’s there, all around, and try as we might, nothing we could ever humanly do could take it away. Except perhaps to be absolutely devoid of all that it means to be human.
Now there’s a pleasant, calm-sounding word.
How should I pick up the pieces? Not by filling the void, but by embracing it.
And maybe one day, relinquishing it.