An excess of anything is no different than poison. It seems that I’ve been talking too much. I have diluted the value of my words with my callous remarks, and I resent myself for that.
While I am cautious, it seems that my comfort with others loosened my tongue. Once or twice might be fine, but a single sentence is enough for me to dig a ditch for myself– let alone a dozen. I’m not deaf nor shameless to deny what I’ve said.
It’s just that I can’t take them back so easily. It’s ironic how I wrote about my resolve to live and die by my words– yet I’ve cheapened them to the point where I question my tongue. I can’t live by my intrusive thoughts, but at the same time– I’ve bound myself with my words.
While I left enough room for me to be pragmatic, a choice must be made. In ‘Thoughts#2’, I already wrote about the idea of taking my words back. I also wrote that my words are meant to be permanent, that the act of recanting them is to reclaim words that became a mistake of intent.
How can I recant my words if I didn’t believe in them to begin with? It can’t be a mistake of intent, as it’d imply that I believed it at any instance of time. For the past few years, I’ve done my best to deceive as little as possible– but it seems that I’ve been deceiving myself this entire time. Sigh, a shameful deed for any sane man to make.
Apart from this, there’s also the matter of my intent conflicting with the form of my words. It’s not the first time that I’ve butchered my thoughts by speaking them out loud.
Quite frankly, if not for my potential and future– I wouldn’t have given a damn about this. If I can’t speak, then I can’t speak– but I can speak. I have a potential that would let me take another step towards my ideal self.
Its existence is one that infuriates me, its consistency being worse than a faulty light switch– my heart burns thinking about it. Most of the anger I’ve felt this academic year is towards myself, and I like this flame.
If I can neither recant my words nor fully stop myself from speaking, then I’ll cancel them out with even more words. Let them smother my more abhorrent chains of words entirely. Every time I’ve layered my words, I made my past more vivid. And so let me blot out some of these colours with my words, to overturn precedent.
Creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin, and heaven knows of my greed– so this coin is going to stand upright. I call my omnibus of words as a living constitution, and it’s not for vanity’s sake.
Now some would say that I’ve given too much thought to this, that I’ve gone too deep into this rabbithole– life being a feather’s weight to them. Others may refute this, claiming that life isn’t some casual toy to be mishandled– that its weight is a very deserved one.
It boils down to the question “Is life that deep?”, by extension– is anything we really do worth the weight of our thoughts? I’ll take a step out of the foreshadowing that my words have casted me in.
Life’s depths are determined by our perception of it. Fools come in many shades. Some of them fly with how they see their lives whilst others suffocate themselves. I may look at life the way a convict looks at the chair, that weight is one that I can handle.
In your eyes, I may be a fool– a sight that both of us share. But even fools have their spark of genius, to shift between these attitudes. Change is a human trait, and I’ve no intent of damning myself. I refuse to sink six feet down, and being fleet-footed is nice at times.
Then again, change without permanence is one that besmirches my good name. A person no longer acts as themselves if they change at a wrist’s twist. Thankfully, like any other decent being– I have beliefs and a backbone for principles.
Above all, I’m tired. There’s no constant in my life, save for the Heavens themselves. Sure, being stuck may be boring. But, I’ve grown weary to the point that I could repeat a lifetime and be content. Sometimes, boring is good.
Author’s note: I’m still on hiatus, but I think I can breathe a few more pieces out. Words count for both writing and speaking, and it seems that I wrote true to my thoughts. This is the shortest piece that I’ve written since September, a new record of 734 words.
Speaking of records, I gotta put something else on this record. This wasn’t prompted by anyone but myself. For me, this is what it means to be accountable towards oneself. To act half-hearted is a repulsive act.
I wrote all of this as a precursor to the actual thought I wanted to write about, but I feel like laughing at this turn of events.
Sigh, I’ll be writing some more to make up for this. Anyways, I think I’ve yapped enough here.
As always, congratulations on reaching the end of this essay.