Somedays, writing is the hardest thing ever to do. Like today. I opened this page because I wanted to write, because I needed to get stuff out of my head and onto paper, but the moment the document began to open, every part of my body began to resist.
It’s take a huge effort to force myself to even type these words and as I’m hitting each key, I’m telling myself “Just finish this thought and then you can stop.”
I walk past a mirror and the woman staring back at me is not me. It’s someone else. I don’t know if she’s better off than I am, happier than I am, more successful, more content, more anything. I simply don’t know her. The moment I walk out of the reflection, it feels like she’s moved on in her life as I am in mine and we’ll never know who is doing what or why.
It’s like when you see someone hurting and you don’t know how to make it stop for them. But while they hurt, you hurt – not necessarily because you love them, but because you’re human.
I hate pain. I always have. I hate hurting, and i hate seeing other people hurt. I don’t care if I know them or not, but if I allow myself to look long enough and see the pain, then I start paining too. It eats into everything I do and see. I become clumsy and dull and lethargic and nothing seems to go right or feel right until I can somehow forget the pain or see them back to normal again.
Some days, I wonder what it would be like to live a life that was tipped in the favour of joy. Where everyone was simply happy with the way things are. Where laughter and understanding, peace and appreciation are not exceptions but norms. I might not fit in that kind of a life too easily; probably start looking over my shoulder and wondering when the Reality Switch would be turned on.
I wonder, were human being really created to be completely and totally at ease? Would we live constructive lives if we never had the challenge of dis-ease? I don’t know. What I do know is that my fingers are demanding that promise I made them, and I’ve finished more than one thought in the process.
“It is a very lonely life that a man leads, who becomes aware of truths before their times.”
Thoman Brackett Reed (1839 – 1902)