On the obscure idea of self
February 12, 2017 § 1 Comment
Two roads present themselves in front of me, each advertising their streetlights with banners saying, “Join us! We are more appealing!” I am conflicted, or perhaps, I want everything.
I’ve been doing better than most days, or years, really, lately. Despite performing less than my potential, and working less than I ought to, and doing less than expected, I feel better. Perhaps it may be the overshadowing attitude of apathy in my perception, or perhaps it is simply that I have accepted currently and forever that I will never know. Because I will never really know, and because everyone only thinks they know – which may be the only thing I am currently truly certain of – maybe that is the reason towards my blissful apathy.
I am not apathetic, now, in the sense that all my care for the world has vanished, or is in the slightest slowly diminishing. Instead, I now more than ever want to pursue the humanitarian career, the only one that always made sense to me since childhood – the only career I never truly understood yet felt gravitated by – for all other careers I am interested in are but hobbies. To perform on stage is a passion I hold dearly to my heart, because of many reasons which entail acting as though I believe in something, and believing in it so truly that I become another person. The idea of being someone that other people believe me to be is very appealing in its mockery of human judgment yet also frightening in its defiance of the definition of self.
The apathy I hold for this world is one that has not blurred all perception, for I still care for the needy and the helpless, as I ought to. Perhaps I feel this way because I was taught empathy since a young age, even in school, and even in my line of work and discipline. Perhaps, as well, I feel this way because even the worst people I have met feel this way. Charity is easy. Treating those close to you well is not easy.
Because I believe no one can ever be certain, and that certainty (even this ‘certainty’ of mine in this thought is flawed in its essence because perception and character change overtime) I think that now I can present myself as I wish. I feel that now I have secrets because I can choose what people see and do not see. When one tells me they love me, I tell them they do not, and even if I do not spew it out loud, I do think it. Because they do not know me, truly, expect, what they think they know. This thought has been in my head for years, but it was never clear as much as it is now, and perhaps that is because it was never true then. I never hid anything, then.
When you are bored of life you must find a way out of this boredom. You’re not doing yourself a favour by lying down, bored. Unless you’re lying down and thinking, or not thinking at all, or doing anything other than thinking “I am bored”, then you’re really not doing yourself any favours. I started perceiving life as a play, so every moment is dialogue, every day is a scene, and every period of time is an act. Life is no longer boring, and happen there be boredom,then your life is simply experimenting with the theater of the absurd.
This begs the question: who are we, if not a collection of everything we have encountered and learnt and can still recollect in our memories? A friend told me a few days ago that we only assume people have specific intentions because deep down so do we. By that logic, if I were to assume you have bad intentions, then so do I, even if I had to dig down really far to find those intentions, but so do I. However, it mustn’t always be the case, for I let go of the masochistic attitude of assuming I am inherently bad. Perhaps a simple answer to why we guard ourselves is that we no longer wish to be let down, or in my case as of now, no longer expect anything due to apathetic attitudes wherein a person’s intentions or goodwill no longer matters. Simply taking precautions is what truly matters, but it mustn’t interfere in our experiences.
I still remember, and hope to never forget, one of the first classes of Literature in high school, when my teacher said (whom I love dearly and whom may be reading this right now), that one of the most important things we should do as students of literature is to experience. So I went back to my parents that day and told them my homework was to go to the cinema and to experience life more. I have been experiencing more since then. I have been much more daring since then.
By writing this it may seem I am sharing too much of what I ought to keep private, but life is short, and I couldn’t care less. I could, actually. But I also know that I write for myself, and by reflecting or trying to understand a few matters in life, it may spark a thought or so in someone else who comes across this — that ‘someone’ will most probably be myself a few years from now, if I am still alive and decide to read this.
I hope that graduating from university marks a sense of independence I have never experienced, one that is greater than all travel and all opportunities – one that is infinitely greater than this.
The roads that nag on me are almost here. I must choose one. To sacrifice my minute life for others, or to consume as much as my soul can take?
The answer is clear.