A few years ago, I used to very carefully observe the signs. I was too observant, in fact, that when disappointment came, it came along with harm. So, as a result, I learned to heed the signs, but only now and then; to try to find within me a shade of gray, so that when the rationalization I always do when I pass by one fails, I’d be able to let go and move on.
And then came a time in my life when I learned to take bad signs for challenges that I’ll have to overcome for the sake of those I care for, and that alone tricked me into obsessing about them again, and lose a contested friendship with destiny along the years. What made things worse in fact was also the eventual utter failure of my endeavors regarding those challenges. Even though I had tried to overcome them, they finally trod on the remains of my sanity, on their way to final, cold, concrete reality.
And after all of that, when my mind was boggled and fogged beyond return, when I had actually stopped thinking about signs altogether, simply because I lost my capacity for expectation, or hope; after all that, my country went on fire and thousands died. I was shocked back to reality and became attached to signs again, to the very dismay of my physical health. The fog, and I can’t find a better word, in fact. It’s not a blur, because when you blink or concentrate, blur goes away; but the fog, it doesn’t really go away. Like a pall over your senses. Like another apparition is taking refuge in your body, and having its own way with things, while the best you can do about it is watch and lose control, lose your mind and go nuts.
And let me describe to you the course of events that transpire when a good sign shows in your life: you have hope, you become better. You start to want to wake up. You wait for the next sign. The wait might be long, but it’s okay, because it’ll have to be that great to keep you waiting so long. And then, when it could only get so long, the light in your life starts to flicker. You start to inspect that first sign. You rethink its significance, and whether it really meant anything. You question its ever absent sister, the one that never came. Where the heck is it, you wonder. Why is it taking so long, you agonize. Things linger on towards the eventual decease of that hope. The light doesn’t even flicker now. It’s completely gone out. Right now there’s darkness, frustration, and worse: a reset.
Yes, a reset. The mighty effort you had exerted for that light to shine again in you, with hopeful constancy, happy mornings, and the cheerful conversations you have on its accord, was all gone to naught. So you reset. You have to start all over again. You light up a candle, put it by your feet, and hug your knees on the cold floor of some corner in your subconscious, and think: what happened to me? what the heck happened to me? how was I so hopeful and believing?
You start cursing the signs and swear that you shall never ever believe in them again, that you like that shady corner, that you shall follow no leads again, no matter where they tell you they’ll go. You say: this is where my sanity is in tact, and this is where I’ll protect it.
These are the hardest tests of faith. You don’t understand anything. Your mind is utterly useless with signs, or the lack of them. Your ability to have hope becomes too thin, stretched, and exhausted.
I need to stop rationalizing life.
Either life is irrational, or people don’t make any freaking sense.