Ourselves

Wrote this on the spur of the moment. Nothing that makes sense, could be just rubbish, could be something deeper. Could be some lost pearls of wisdom. Could be just some balderdash.

----

It is not too late to start.

We were always so keen to be ahead of ourselves, always so eager to be at the front line that we always tell ourselves that it is not too late to start now.

And yet, we procrastinate, thinking there is much time left. It is in the pages that we read that we find space that we need. Oh, the clutter, we would say, wanting to get rid of never-ending issues of our lives.

Still, we want to be true to ourselves, and so we face on the challenges ahead. We listen to inspiring songs, watch inspiring movies, read inspiring books, encouraging ourselves to press on, never give up. Inside of us, we are on a seemingly never-ending journey to seek out what is possibly positive about us. We are mighty, we are strong; we are but a tiny little speck. Then, we convince ourselves that even ants can carry much more than they are seemed to be able.

We are all born crying, there is nothing more satisfying than a trumpet of wails. It is our precursor in life, our habit, our way of wanting. You cry less when you grow older, you convinced yourself that crying is not manly. Even the elders tell you so. However, our way of wanting, our habit, our precursor have not subdued throughout the years. It still raves about, giving people the inability to control anything else but tears.

Where do we go from here? We laugh at the silliness of others, we laugh at the expense of others, we laugh at the expense of ourselves; we laugh in spite of laughter. It is a sensation that tingles and tickles within us, that causes our brains to react, our diaphragms to vibrate, our souls to be replenished. I was taught not to laugh so disrespectfully. I was taught not to laugh heartily. We then lose our ability to laugh, a repressed agony inside of us that becomes agony itself.

Ah, I forgot to talk about love. When it comes to love, everyone has a different opinion about it. You may think love is unsaid, I may think that love should be vocalized more often than not. When love blooms, it’s not the extravagance that we adore, though we would not mind the attention, but that when love comes, we are hopeful that it can stay, it can surround, and it can help us to become who we are, becoming ourselves. It is not for ourselves, we may say. Oh, but it is indeed for the self. We are all taught what love is and what is not, we are all entrapped by the notion of a word, or three at least; we are weakened at the sight of what lies inside a person and what lies inside ourselves when we are in love. We are all not equipped to love though we are driven to learn to equip ourselves.

Thus, when we grow older, are we becoming ourselves or are we becoming others? If we were to grow younger, though die we still shall, will we become ourselves? Will our lives in reverse be any better? I should think not. We are only but a breath, like when a wind of change comes, that breath is gone. Like a daisy, we are only but a day or maybe five at most. But I do not think that it is too late. Even if the petals are falling away, even if we start to forget those that matters, even if time does not seem to be moving as fast as we think it should, even if procrastination is no longer distracting, nor does the need for space excites us, we are still given this hour, this minute, this second. We are not asked to be heroes, to be instant stars of the universe, nor are we asked to become ourselves in a day, though that would be so appealing to the mind.

It is not too late to start, not for the sake of being in the frontline, but to be who we are to be, to be who we are when we are. Then we are truly, unabashedly, authentically ourselves.