I’m working on myself right now, and that is not a simple feat. Especially when my mind and it’s odd behavior seem to make things harder than they need be. Emotions are bigger. Louder. Which makes for quite a struggle. But a silent one.
I wonder if my hard work put into rebuilding my life will bear fruit. It’s often a question of time and procedure. I can be proactive, but to an extent. I can’t wrestle control from the iron grip of others. No matter. My world is still turning. Despite the “morbid” world view I have according to my new least favorite person. You don’t see me going to her blog and objecting to whatever she does there. It’s because of insecurity. Like my mom, for example: not coping with the real issue because it’s too scary or whatever. It just postpones the inevitable. But I’m only mildly auspicious about my prospects. I think the whole thing could use a good old reframing. Then maybe things will have new value.
I’m not here to tell anyone how to be. Fuck man. I can hardly do anything of consequence, which disqualifies me from knowing anything. I’m as ignorant of circumstance as the next mook. But I’m more likely to have learned something from a failure, or learned what it takes to succeed before trying. I’d rather not just have to “wing it” or anything. Life is too important.
I’ve wasted a lot of time hoping someone else would compromise their attention and appease my emotional needs. That’s just not healthy behavior. Instead, I’ve tried addressing moments and triggers, and appreciating feelings just for being. That usually makes them happy, and then they flutter back the way they came. It’s all about respecting myself and my feelings as legitimate. Registerable events in the seismograph of living. They just want to be seen. Even my deepest sadness can come and go. It’s still going to be ok. Tomorrow is coming regardless. What about that philosophical approach is “morbid” exactly. Perhaps you just use words that you don’t know the meaning of.
At any rate, I am never going to be just happy all the time. The world is a peculiar place with random radicals colliding and ricocheting at the whims of chance. I’m no different than any other small variable in the complex equation. And I’m ok with that.