On fresh starts

FRESH_1024x1024I don’t believe in them. I don’t think you can recreate anything. I don’t believe you can mend emotions. Once in love with the past, now I loathe it. A fresh start insinuates a simulation of something that has been, in the hopes of a reincarnation. Nothing can rise from the dead. You may give birth to a billion new things, but the past cannot be resuscitated, regardless of your desperation, in spite of your prayers, despite your longing.

It has become an oxymoron for me. You must first destroy, and then create; incinerate, and then throw away the ashes so they don’t smear what you wish to bring into a clean existence. You should not forget, but you must not recall. Memories have senses too. They will mislead you, though, trick you into rebooting what you think is ideal. It might have been; it is no longer. All moments are ascribed their own time. They belong there; so, please, let them be.

A start can only be fresh if it has just been produced, not reheated. The question now remains, can you reheat people? Warm them up so they reach the temperature of your own skin? And if you do succeed, how long do you think this fabricated warmth will last? Enough to kiss you? Tell you what you’ve been longing to hear again? Enough to care? You will soon feel the temperature drop again, and cold fingers is all you will remember.

Will you recover? Which memory is worse? The good that will never come again or the one you machinated and then watched fall short? Everything has been falling short lately. What have I done? I live in certain machinations. I breathe contrivances. I am empty, selfish, ignorant, and full of fresh starts that fail me one by one.

I am stale.

On certainty

img_6174A clock somewhere is ticking. But it’s being dragged. I feel like Sisyphus, but I’m not carrying a boulder up the hill. I am carrying time. I am desperately trying to move it forward; I have fooled myself into thinking it will somehow bring something different the next time it falls on my head or rolls away from me.

I’ve been waiting for something for far too long. I am now done. I have accepted my defeat. I have laid down my arms and I have surrendered. I have surrendered to a higher power: time.

I don’t doubt anymore. I am done. Now I am certain.

Our software dictates hope and optimism even in dire situations (maybe even more so in desperate times: another type of survival instict). That’s what I’ve been doing for more than a year, hoping. Now, even this very sentiment has become a joke.

An objective observer would have urged me to lose hope long ago. They would have given me an exit strategy and coordinates for an emergency evacuation. I have finally become objective, and I have my own coordinates. Now all I need to do is plan the route and start walking (away).

On doubts

2b64e9e23719b0523f315745c580119bI am sitting on a beach, on an island, in the middle of the Mediterranean sea. Hundreds of people are all around me, it is surprisingly quiet, though. I can think, read my book and listen to music on my headphones. I can doubt everything in peace. Why do we sometimes doubt and other times choose to believe in something or someone? What parameters affect our decision to either be true to our human nature and even question our happiness, or wear a mask and proceed in the dark…trusting, believing and without fear?

I am sitting in my desk chair, on the third floor, in the middle of Athens. No one is around me, it is surprisingly loud, though. I can’t think, read or listen to music with lyrics on my speakers. I found a playlist with instrumental music, mostly piano. Ambient, they call it. I can hear a sombre violin now. I can still doubt in peace.

It is a violent state of mind. It permeates every pore of hope and optimism. Doubt trumps fear. Fear is palpable, honest, reasonable even. Doubt is crippling in its effervescence, for it sighs uncertainty and distorts the validity of knowledge, even the one based on experience. You tell it what you know and it sneers. It rescinds all your senses and shamelessly welcomes you into a rabbit hole it has created just for you: underground rooms of memories, warped just enough to spawn disquiet.

Doubt is an ethereal beast, forged by the hand of vacillation. Its edges are blunt, its core lethal. It is a trickster. It keeps the doors open for it knows you won’t leave, not once you’ve entertained the idea of its existence. So you roam inside its kingdom and you become its slave; willingly, whole-heartedly, almost gratefully, for you’re convinced of its veracity. Your chains are customised, your blindfold weaved in your own image.

You choose to stay there for the truth you doubt no more is much more painful. At least in doubt you can be something instead of nothing.

On chances

take-at-least-one-chance-quote-1When we think about chances we usually have two misconceptions: one is that they come crashing down in front of our eyes, wrapped in Christmas lights, bearing a neon sign with an arrow pointing at the words: TAKE IT; the second is that they are infinite.

Neither is true. There are many, but they are not inexhaustible, and most of the time they appear incognito. It’s not that things can never be easy, or uncomplicated, or straightforward (which , let’s face it, they rarely are) but that from some point on we have to be willing to see them for what they are, or at least risk it and find out.

What we don’t realise is that by becoming risk-averse we are slowly becoming life-averse. As dramatic and hyperbolic as this may sound, it is sadly true. The trap is set in the lethargy we let ourselves lie in. We cocoon ourselves in the putative and comfortable slowness of time and we wait, postpone, wile away, wander, roam, meander from one familiar act to the next, squandering chances.

Tomorrow is always going to be there, so why sweat it today? Does it have to be right this moment? Surely not. IT CAN WAIT: and that is our live’s neon sign, if there ever was one. I can almost imagine chances as flies, buzzing around us, resting on our skin, and us nonchalantly, but always with a slight annoyance, waving them away.

I’m trying to remember the last one I blew. It was three months ago. It was something small, possibly inconsequential, but looking back now, I would have liked to have taken it. No matter where it led me.

For chances are like choices: they either reward you or come back to haunt you.