tsvetoslav shalev

“Love at the sloping of our years” – but I know I should not yield – “Becomes more tender and superstitious” – neither to memories, nor to fear, nor to this passionate syncope: “… and superstitious” – and I had hoped so much that everything would be orderly, all simple and neat.

– Vladimir Nabokov, Invitation to a Beheading

Imagine a brief period in your life when everything goes according to plan. And yet, instead of contentment, you sense a feeling of purposelessness creeping up on the periphery of your psyche. Why is that? The answer, I suspect, is complex, but allow me to throw in my tuppence. During such times, we may be experiencing timelessness or whatever resists entropy and disorder. After all, why, instead of extinguishing post-Big Bang, has the Universe become the housing of clumps of matter? However brief and unstable reality might be, it’s an objective fact. We exist and are aware of our existence, and our existence is mundane. I, for one, no longer think there’s anything wrong with surrendering to the ordinary.

The threat of prolixity always looms close whenever I am around, but luckily for you, the mental pages I am leafing through right this very moment are all a mess of inky splotches and smears, where once, I thought, meaning was had. That is because I am rushing to get this post done and shared. It’s Sunday morning, the sun is out, and I want to go out for a walk. I’d love a breakfast, an egg omelette with bacon, sausage, and ham, and a cup of flat white, unsweetened. I do not want to think about the end result nor the reception; I don’t feel like dwelling on the ideas or the kernels of truth behind the feelings which wash over me. No, I am expelling all of this like so much trapped gas or an unwelcome visitor – with polite exacerbation. I won’t say I am tired of you; I refuse to admit to discomfort lest I ruin a perfectly fine moment of shared indifference. And it bothers me; this practice of hastily cobbling something together and making it public feels insincere not just towards you, but also towards the image of the self I’ve entertained for years. I should be savouring the process of creation. This is supposed to be my jam, my raison d’être, but instead, it feels like so much of a chore. I am neither angry nor upset; I am not in love, but I don’t feel alone; I don’t lack energy, but I prefer to use it sparingly; I think I need therapy, but maybe I just really need human connections. Out of context, the above smacks of random unfettered yammering. And in the context of my life nowadays, it might seem like I am whinging (complaining or whining in a way that’s considered annoying). And that takes us right back to the notion of timelessness. We are alive and sometimes, nothing is happening. But the latter is an illusion. So much is happening, in fact, that we’d get overwhelmed if we tried processing it all. Instead, it’s best if we spend these moments of quietude selecting the things we want to care about.

Personally, I care about living a mindful coexistence. It’s why I choose to find ways to express and share my takes on reality with you. I also care about resisting Time’s arrow with grace, through kindness and educated effort. If all is well and this bothers you, know that neither state will last. And that too is okay. For the more solid one’s foundations, the less painful a disaster recovery event. We can weather anything together. And when the storms blow over, let’s allow ourselves to take pleasure in the calm. Or whatever the heck Eastern philosophies teach. Peace!