Wish I was a saint!

Sometimes, being saint seems easier than being myself. In a world that fights to change you every second, to be who you are is the toughest challenge. The thing is that, I am up for that challenge, with a ‘but’ associated with it. A bit of a bummer, truly. I can honestly say that I don’t enjoy being me anymore. In fact, I feel that I am as far away from me as possible. Some days are like that. I wake up and think about the purpose of this existence. Whose mere whim is it, that I exist? Whose fantasy is it that rides this boat? There are days where a coherent thought is far from my mind and days where the very next minute is an ordeal I do not wish to cross. And some days, I wish I can fly by to the next day, but the clock ticks incessantly, in its steady manner. Sometimes, that is a blessing, that says, nothing can make me move any faster than how I want to move. Like, it says, in this ever changing world, I remain unperturbed. Feel me tick, feel me tock, I love it when someone pays attention to me. And I wonder, am I the only one who pays attention to it?

I feel the pain of people around me, even if I am the one causing it and it sometimes cripples me to the extent I cannot function. I stay strong, yet I wither inside of me, despite the bravado. If I don’t feel pain, I don’t feel anything else either. Is every emotion born out of pain? Perhaps it is. It is said that a mother undergoes unbearable pain, when she brings a life into this world. She feels so much pain that she collapses and when she wakes up after the ordeal, she hardly remembers any pain. Perhaps, since life is so intertwined with the pain of the womb, pain is the strongest emotion that drives life. But there comes a point where that pain is not endurable. There comes a point where beyond that, even if it is an abyss that exists, it is easy to jump into it. Some call it quitting. But, why endure when endurance is not worth it? Then again, I think, it goes back to our birth. A mother has to endure the pain to bring a child into the world. If she does not wish to endure, she seals the fate, of her and the child inside of her. So she endures and she teaches the child the first price of endurance. The sweetness of life. As days pass by, the child eventually grows, making the mother question the sanity of her decision, as to why she endured the pain in the first place. And despite those insane thoughts, true to the nature of a mother, she endures furthermore, the bitter sweet pain of her prodigy. In some cases, despite the fruitlessness of this endurance, she continues to strive for the welfare of her child. Therein lies another lesson from a mother. Patience. For what? To be hurt all over again, to begin the cycle of those incessantly irksome thoughts of pain and endurance? Perhaps a mother’s threshold level is far more greater than that of her child. Unfortunately, I wonder, if the child were to be a boy, will he have the same set of thoughts or will he, like a father, get things done instead of feeling the need and being crippled by those fanciful emotions that do not get two cents on the road side? Perhaps, cynical of me, to think men do not have emotions, when some of those emotions, or lack thereof, are those that cause the frustration in a day-to-day life. And for every tick of the clock, there is someone counting the seconds to get through the day, to endure, to persevere until the next day. Some days, are like that for me too. Those days, I wish I was a saint.

Despite the brevity of character, sometimes, it is important to feel nothing. That nothingness being the truth that everything else is beyond the limits of the person. And sometimes, that nothingness is in feeling that everything is in one’s hands and one just has to drop that everything. To not feel the nothingness or to feel the nothingness and to not react to it, will truly be an act of a saint. Some days, I am like this too! But, I don’t actually meditate. I rather cringe internally in to a shell, being the husk of a person who could be much more. With the internal uproar a bliss to the pumping heart, which pumps reverently, like air pushing the fire from beneath to reach the sky. That in itself is meditation, to seek that fire, to stall it, to tame it, to hurl it. Some days are like this too.

True to my nature, some days I endure, some days I hurl, some days, I just wish I was a saint, with nothingness in me. Such bliss in the solitude, I tell you, is definitely worth going to the end of the earth to find it.