People tend to abominate a life based on this notion of psychotic rightness and awareness of their true emotional state. It’s saner. Happily thinking we can, as humans, be at ease with the reality that is switching off vulnerability but still we can’t stand being called cold, for it’s offensive. So the proper way is to segregate feelings, glue them to their own antithetic essence, never twist them for fear of some entropic doubt that will arise and apparently ache. Sadness and joy may be Yin and Yang but still they’re two turbulent halves of the same circle, our flawed personal sphere.
To externalize them eloquently is seen as fomenting a unison, screaming for a conjunct support, to feed a community of broken ones finally glad to see their uniqueness obliterated. Loneliness never truly exists, our obligatory self is what we struggle with, not being able to grab answers within us while clearly ignoring the obvious justification for it. How will we find resolution in a body poisoned from this build-up of unanswered questions? If loving someone had to only have one single purpose, it would be to offer us some clarity on our mandatory human nature. We ignore its existence up until the moment it stings us with intents of killing, and that’s when we turn inside to breath. Some come to life, in its own time, others I’ve heard they meander nowhere forever. In my opinion, bitterness eventually subsides, the opposite would just be unnatural and incompatible with the purpose of life, which is living under all types of freedom, including freedom from ourselves.
It has been life’s intention to incorporate in us this sensation of growth from experience, this sight of goal-achieving, pain followed closely by inhospitable reconstruction, then forced though sincere re-enrichment and concrete joy that still cries at moments of introspection. Down and up, each polo displaying in its wholeness a dispar and clear stain of insanity, depression or its oppression. Keeping this wait for the coming day when oppressing the unavoidable will be only and finally a matter of choice, of choosing whether to keep sliding in the stuckness you’ve cuddled with for a while because you’re simply weak and unwilling to embrace change, or to walk on; the day when our purposive effort to forget may strike as unneeded, and then you’ll realise what I meant by returning apter from failure.