tsvetoslav shalev

All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

– Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho

March of this year will mark my 36th birthday. That’d be roughly 13000 days spent fantasizing, hoping in vain, trying to find the right words, aching, sighing, doing as I am told, doing what I thought was good, wrestling with fears, searching for a brave face to wear, battling discontentment, turning cynicism into kindness and positivity, pleading, forgiving, forgetting, trusting blindly, loving sincerely, hating overcomplications, fixing things, helplessly watching things and people fall to pieces, unplanning but not uncaring, struggling with ambiguity, struggling with self-esteem, struggling… Aren’t we all? At our best, the above manifests itself as a minor inconvenience, an indelible part of the human condition. In our times of need, however, we are blinded and deafened by half-baked thoughts chasing their own scruffy tails. Ah, blissful absent-mindedness! To be the beneficiary of such a gift! But I have to content myself with fitful sleep instead.

In all fairness, I no longer see my short-lived relationships as a setback. The trepidation, trials, and tribulations are worth it when a final summation is made. But what of the heartache? It is an unfortunate byproduct of a desire to live and to love more fully. A willingness to explore, to meet, to leave one’s comfort zone and see this life with eyes both old and new. Like the explorers of ancient times, I push against the unknown, against my anxieties and shortcomings, bound for what surely must be a terra firma of a different yet familiar nature. And it isn’t spices, gold or influence that I am after. It’s the foundations of my own home and a shoulder to lean on – my de facto prime movers, a medicine for the sickly-sweet state of unconcerned apathy, a true-to-life mirror image of the self at its most vulnerable. Yes, by admitting that we love someone, we also externalize our fears of having something precious to lose. A risk I take gladly.

Being on the Autistic spectrum compels me to seek simplicity. On the other hand, reading and writing propel me to keep my inner eye trained on the impossible vastness and intricate detail of the human condition. Somehow, out of these disparate states, a hidden source of determination stems. My physical therapist tells me that learning new things rejuvenates our nervous system, and I agree with her. That’s why I’m planning on asking her out. But that’s a story for another time. Until then, be kind.