I bet you thought your life would change.

One day you suddenly, painfully, realize that something important is missing in your life and there is too large a gap between what you are and the sense of what you should be. And before you know it, this emptiness starts eating at you. You may not know yet what exactly it is that you want, but you know quite well what you do not want: remaining the person you currently are. You may be so ashamed that you don't even dare to call that "existence": you don't exist yet properly. It must have been in this sense that Socrates used the term "midwifery" for what he was doing. By subjecting those around him to the rigors of philosophy, he was bringing them into proper existence. So closely related to self-detestation, it may be that philosophy begins not in wonder, but in shame.


— Costica Bradatan, Dying for Ideas: The Dangerous Lives of the Philosophers.

————————

They told me not to stand near the cold lake
in fear that I might fall in and never come out
but I still dipped my feet in
and got out anyway.


They told me not to stare into the Sun
in fear that the sun rays might blind me
but I still intertwined my fingers to have a peek
and survived the light anyway.

If I could do it again,
I would.

If I could do it again and again,
I would not even hesitate.

And I think I know why I chose to be like this;
for everything that happens in my life is my choice.
A pity it took the celebration of the millenium,
counting down to a new decade,
and having lived for more than a quarter of a decade
to finally realise that every thing was my choice.
 The way I responded to getting bullied in school,
the way I reacted to things that didn't go my way,
the way I rejected temptations that crossed my path,
the way that I behaved otherwise.

Did we create the complications in our lives because our mere breaths were not sufficient to satisfy our urge for pure bliss, or did we accept the temptations that gave us false hopes of a better tomorrow and a better state of mind?

Was I born for a reason?
Was I born to be a reason?
The reason simply being that I was easier as an excuse;
an excuse for mistakes to be made,
an excuse for mistakes to be undone,
an excuse for lessons to be learnt,
an excuse to continue this life.
Is this the reason for being alive?
Am I the reason for counting my own blessings,
for finding purpose in my definite heart palpitations.
 Where do I find meaning in my choices?
Am I living meaningfully enough?
Do I need to make sure I do?

 

I need to get you off my mind.

————————

M.

But you're sat on a train again.

Your memories are sceneries

For things you said but never really meant.

You build it too high to say goodbye.

Because you're not the same as them.

But your death, it won't happen to you.