If perfect sense came with the explanations for everything that happens to us, to the best of us, we would all of us write our lives out page by page, purging it of all skeletons, all guilt, all anger and every regret. It is the questions that swoop, curl and move in concentric circles inside our head, the ones which keep us lying sleepless all night that knead our sense of contentment, coerce rest into near elusiveness and make space for anger. We stare into empty spaces, look through glaring windows, stop amid sentences and twist knuckles. We search for an explanation. We demand familiarity. In it's most basic, intricate workings, the mere human mind is taught to assume that familiarity is knowledge; that only if an idea rings true to the common nature of what we have known so far, which is assumed to be everything, only if it molds and slips easily into this frame that has been constructed over the years, it maybe allowed the privilege of recognition, and into existence.
And if in one of these seconds and minutes that tick by relentlessly, we manage to throw our hands out, wrap our fingers around and clasp an explanation tightly that refuses to fit into this shape, we reject it. An explanation now exists but does it make sense? It doesn't fit. The questions that ensnared our senses are now in the company of rejection and refusal. The noose tightens. Spend twenty more sleepless nights and silent days.The demand grows and sweeps in the first of its guests - desperation
Some how, we feel that like all building blocks that we put together as indifferent children, our thoughts owe us the logic and pattern of those toys too. We do find answers, but when we fail to find all sense in them, we hold onto the questions like a stubborn, ignorant child.
While we involve into this unforgiving pattern, we also fail to realise that time really does wait for no one. There comes a time when this shapeless, homeless notion grows out into a monster and grows bigger than the man who sheltered it in the first place. For every question we cling on to, every explanation we try shake into sense, we lose the time to step ahead and the opportunity to look further, to attempt and stretch this frame wider. Hollow, dark crescents beneath the eyes, scaly hands, disheveled strands of hair. We begin to resemble the monster.
To stop life in its shoes, we tie ourselves down to the mercy of explanations. All the while, the sand in every hourglass continues to pour down in submission of gravity, the world walks us by and nothing stops unless we stop looking into empty spaces. In seeking answers, some of us, unconsciously mine deep into Anxiety. Unlike the outside, all halts within us until that one day, we hear the alarm trill beside our pillow; the shrill call that carries us back to a time of movement, a time with life. Until we consider stepping outside our own authority, our own cruel limits and consider for one moment to simply walk the shore, count every wave that kisses our feet and forget to demand.
