As I previously mentioned in ‘Dissent-1, some of us forget that freedom is a privilege elsewhere. Yet they wish to open their wings, to fly into foreign lands. I have no desire to see these wings broken, but I recognize their choice.
Oftentimes, we see the highlights of these nations– conveniently ignoring its background. After all, living abroad sounds like a luxury at a glance. It certainly doesn’t help that this idea is amplified by people taking vacations– they leave too short to see the pitfalls.
My experiences leave me with a sense of prejudice and I recognize that, so my advice is better suited for the Eastern Hemisphere.
At the same time, I cannot guide others by being blind. So I must ask them to dispel this idealization of theirs. As I said earlier, customs and traditions often serve as a form of conformity.
So you may be eager to celebrate some traditions and customs, a sentiment that puts a smile on my face. But it appears that your bliss has left you blind. To put it mildly, I find that the remaining norms are incompatible with a person’s vision of their future.
Integrating in these foreign lands is not as easy as one is led to believe. Regardless of your blood ties to this land, your nationality as an American gives people the excuse of xenophobia to shun and reject you.
I’ve learnt that people don’t need a reason to divide themselves, if a pretext doesn’t exist– then they’ll simply engineer it. Some people assume that their nationality acts as a shield– a sentiment true only in the legal sense, social and economics be damned.
Sure, you may have family or friends in this new abode of yours. But, you’ll eventually have to go outside and interact with your surroundings– exposing yourself to the elements of this society.
You may make plans on how you want to live your life, but man proposes while the Heavens dispose. You can dream, but can you materialize it?
Some of us fail to realize the gap between our current reality and the one that they want to immigrate to. From the people themselves to our very sense of normal, you’ll be disoriented by these differences– to the point of being nauseous.
People tend to believe that they can easily bridge this gap, a belief that I find as partially true. Sure, we can bridge these gaps with people– by extension our surroundings.
Yet the only traveler of these bridges is our voice, for these bridges cannot bear the weight of a person– a fragile one.
So tell me, can you truly build a bridge for you to walk on?
There’s also the matter of assimilation, as I’ve learnt that its influence can only be minimized. After all, a person’s environment molds them.
Change is inevitable and it’s exacerbated by this new environment. You either adapt or remain displaced, a person who lived in both nations yet had no home.
While some of us may have homes in both, that experience is unfamiliar to me. A person may resolve themselves to never change, but they can’t remain alert forever.
So it’s better to choose the ground on which you compromise, to better preserve your core. And so I must ask, can you accept this change?
In the end, I must ask– can you bear the responsibility of this choice of yours?
I find it ironic how others wanted to live their idealizations when I was waiting to go home, a sprinkle of lemon on this wound of mine.
Time is a teacher whose teachings remain unseen, and I’ve aged the most in these foreign lands. Six years that served as a catalyst to a good part of my current self.
To say the least, those years have left me feeling everything. The entire spectrum of emotions, the negative part being more apparent.
In a way, I’ve also been idealizing for six years now. Just as others have been dreaming about going abroad, I’ve been waiting to come back to my birthplace. I thought it’d be easy for me to adapt, but it seems that I’ve deluded myself.
I thought that it’d be easier given that I was born here but instead I find myself on a proverbial minefield without a map. I only know enough to exist, my lack of knowledge being a quality that I loathe.
I detest the fact that I don’t even know the ground that I walk on. I can’t discern whether my actions are normal or not, a constraint imposed onto me. Sure, I may ask people and try to solve my problem in this manner.
But, tell me– how can a person teach when their lessons are lived? I recognize the oddness in me voicing my doubts. While my definition of normal may differ from conventional wisdom, my doubts violate this tenet.
To ask is no different from setting the entire field alight, a single mine would set off the rest. After all, people are connected like spider webs– this web being a tighter one than my initial expectations.
I recognize the futility of my thoughts, but I must still think regardless. Who’ll think for me if I do not think for myself? It is a tiring endeavor, one exacerbated by my lapses in judgement– one tied to a specific group.
The irony is one that rests on my shoulders, as this blindness acts opposite to my thoughts– leaving me to sit with another weight.
The concept of mixed signals is a novel one for me, as I’ve no intent to make dozens of answers only for all of them to be wrong.
While my writing may be ambiguous at times, given enough time– it shall brighten itself. The only question is who burns this layer away– will it be myself or will someone else burn it on their own.
These mixed signals are ones that I prefer to ignore, as it strains my mental resources even further. The cost is disproportionate to the benefit of such signals.
The value of people may be subjective in my eyes, but I’m only so willing to dedicate these facilities to them before disengaging.
You’ll find my apparent behavior to diverge from the behavior that’d normally be associated with these thoughts of mine. I recognize that I may appear to be confident at times. While it might be a bold one, it’s rooted in cautiousness.
You’ll find that this confidence is synonymous with my perception of purpose. It is that purpose that emboldens me. Now, this purpose doesn’t have to be anything grand– something as mundane as speaking would suffice.
I may be confident in dealing with people, but that is a result of purpose rather than the idea of people. I’ve become more pessimistic of others. Once the foundation of this confidence switches from purpose to people, it’ll falter.
This confidence is enough to do a bit more than function, so you’ll find that I prefer to spin a tight web rather than a wide net.
My eyes may have zeal in them, but that zeal is born from uninterrupted thoughts. I recognize this enthusiasm, as it’s another fuel that lets me write. I also recognize people’s thoughts in regards to this energy of mine.
While I may have this light in my eyes, its glow hides my fatigue. I may burn, but I am not a forest fire. People just happen to see me burning and tend to assume that I always burn like this, mistaking this gleam as inexhaustible.
If anything, I burn out for longer as a result of this focus. I may speak for hours on end, but do I not barely speak for even longer?
My zeal is a constant exception to my lethargic norm. It appears that I’m predisposed to exhausting myself, my eyes burning as I write.
I am far from done in regards to this, but I must recognize the eyes of my readers. Not everything is meant to be written.
You see, my readers are people– thus being subject to the same pessimistic view I hold of people. This view of mine is softened by my knowledge of them, a slight reduction considering I know almost nothing.
To be frank, I don’t trust my readers. They remain unknown to me, my days of unconditional trust having long since expired. I don’t believe that my audience would understand my writing as I intend them to.
I am not so demanding to have their interpretations to match mine. After all, what makes me so different from the conformity that I sought to condemn?
Yet I find that some writings can’t be misinterpreted. Such views are beyond the cost that I can bear, thus I must reject this possibility by denying its existence.
I find that we can be quite delusional at times, and it is a part of my due diligence that my writings are not an object of these delusions.
If anything, I have done my best to combat this by addressing this potential directly in the past. Unfortunately, it’s not enough– there are no lines as a person’s thoughts are concealed.
In lieu of this understanding, I would rather predict and anticipate. Let it be known that I am skeptical of myself, this view not being withheld in regards to myself.
It’s part of the reason why I treat my words and convictions as chains to ensure the stability of my trust.
This sense of responsibility became an obligation when I decided to acknowledge the connection between my writing and myself– when I deprived myself of the shield of anonymity.
From ‘Censor’s Identity’, I recognized my writings and brought it into the orbit of my personal life. This became more apparent from ‘Trifecta’, when I mandated myself to display it prominently.
It is that personal responsibility that serves as a voice of reason. I’ve no intent to have my inward thoughts to read in their full disclosure. It would be a disservice to myself, as the image produced by these emotions would serve to inhibit me.
Yet I am conflicted. This voice acts contrary to my intent in writing, to act as an expression of myself. By suppressing these sentiments, I contradict myself and stifle myself– denying myself of an outlet.
It is this contradiction that treats my years abroad as an account that I am hesitant to write of, as I recognize the disparity of my experiences– a different light that may taint my current splendor.
I’ve already forsaken this light, so why would I want to bear it of my own accord once more?
I have no qualms of recalling the past, but the reaction of this retelling. However, it seems that I’ve been a bit senile, my eyes being stuck in the past that I speak of– rather than looking at the listener itself, to discern their reactions.
Thus, I can only recant my fear of these reactions without bearing witness to them. Even then, I have no intention of dumping these memories onto another without relief– that would constitute trauma-dumping.
You’ll find that many of my insights and experiences woven into my writing originate from those years, a period destitute of kindness.
I recognize my tendency to share with others, that my boundaries are perhaps more lenient than what it should be. I also recognize that it may be asymmetrical, a quality that only becomes an issue when it exceeds a certain threshold.
After all, restraint is a necessity in my case– a leash that has become more lax as a result of bias.
I may recognize this bias, but the underlying reason and intent behind this bias eludes my understanding. Impartiality is a standard that I hold myself to, a standard whose adherence may flux at times. Yet this standard remains standing regardless of its height.
I find it odd that these people have escaped this standard, becoming a bias that exists between my understanding and oblivion. I cannot close my eyes to this matter, as my thoughts have grown out-of-sync as a result.
Yet I cannot keep both of them open, as their escape is one that I find novel– it’s a pity for them to return to this standard when I’ve become immersed.
It seems that I’ve found the reason behind this reluctance of mine, that they’ve grown onto me– making me reluctant to rip them out.
This may not be the first time that this standard has been breached, but it is the first time that I have looked at it, shedding light on this contradiction that I’ve abstained from this entire time.
Sigh, with this– I must acquiesce to these weathered sentiments of mine. The system which holds my understanding must yield to this truth. The truth that a man cannot think without a heart.
It appears that I’ve wielded impartiality as an excuse to discard the emotions associated with these thoughts, a mistake that is to be remedied.
This contradiction is similar to the one posed by the necessity and intent of my writing. One that distinguishes itself by suppressing emotions rather than stripping them entirely.
I cannot audit myself in an apathetic manner, nor can I possess an excess of emotions– turning it into a rant.
It is one matter to write with these feelings as ink to serve an expression of my will. It is another to let myself drown in my own reflections in an attempt to understand my will, by extension myself. If I am to drown, then that sight shall be privy to myself.
As the eldest, I am accustomed to this– to rely upon myself. I am the one who is responsible for others. That would explain my tendency to help others, service acting as a language– another reason for my self-imposed weariness.
Idleness is a quality that I abstain from, one that is only acknowledged in solitude. Thus, I find myself in a dilemma– as my position dictates that I am to grasp my own hand.
My subconscious may dissent, but I find a person’s hand as a luxury that I deny myself through this predisposition.
In the past, I said that I reject the concept of pity being imposed on me– a thought that remains. However, I’ve been remiss by not contemplating it.
I believe that I’ve associated the concept of pity with those that I abhor and revile, the catalysts of my growth in India.
I’ve developed the notion that if I accept this pity, then I am no different from the objects of my afflictions. It is a thought that I have to recant after deliberating about it. Holding this thought actively contaminates the concept of pity itself.
That doesn’t mean that my attitude towards pity shall flip in one go. After all, it’s weird to be on the receiving end of it.
It lightens the rejection behind this concept and allows for the angle of my attitude to change over time, eventually allowing it to reach a half-turn.
At times, I find the schedule of my writing to be inconvenient at times– this piece being an example. After all, it’s a self-examination and my reluctance is instinctual.
If I had a choice, I would muddy the waters– to publish multiple pieces at a time. That way, the people’s growing attention would be split by this.
I may find it inconvenient for me to publish this specific piece today, but my writing isn’t meant to be convenient. I have legislated myself a rule and I have no just cause to bend it, let alone break it.
When I question myself, the answer being “It was merely convenient” is not one that would satisfy me.
The same could be said for a person’s virtues. A man cannot withhold these virtues for the sake of convenience, as they cease to be virtues once it cowers in times of hardship.
What answer can they give, that they found their virtues as convenient– to shove aside at a moment’s notice?
That is the final thought that I’m willing to write for this piece, as I can’t continue this monologue forever. I’ve more topics and thoughts to write that don’t fit within this piece.
Author’s note: I don’t think I’ve been this expressive about myself since I started uploading stories of my pieces.
Now that I’ve finally dealt with this issue, I’ll probably be more open about writing about the past and myself again since I’ve established my thoughts with ‘Doubt’. I can now point to that as a reference for myself in the future.
This is the second part of ‘Thoughts#2’ and I believe that the next piece should be the last part of it? I doubt it considering the amount of topics I have left to write.
Given that my writing had more of an internal focus, I’m going to have to clarify something. It is not directed towards any specific person– so perish the thought.
It took me longer to write this piece since I had to filter my thoughts and writing. If I’m going to write, then I’m going to be meticulous about it. This only extends towards drafting, as it’s not worth the effort of editing it.
One change that I’m going to have to disclose is that I might link and unlink my writing account from my personal account from time to time. I’d rather err on the side of caution given the additional responsibility that I’ve just incurred.
Regardless, I’m still going to upload stories as usual. As always, congratulations on reaching the end of this piece.
References: 31-Dissent_1 34-Thoughts_2 16-Censor’s Identity 17-Thoughts_1 24-Lumen 22-Judgement 30-Tones 25-Insight 08-Writing Style