It is not always the case that I pay attention, particularly when there is too much background noise. My friends ask me how to determine that. That the answer is at once simple and complex does not seem to help judging by the instant furrows that populate their faces. Yet, that is simply the case.
For years I struggle with the concept. In fact, it is now an obsession. For some reasons, and to my disdain, the issues that pervade it remain elusive. They seem to blur with those that present to me in surprisingly distinct ways. This time, I wonder if a little help does not matter.
Help. Now, when my eyes seem to see clearer and my soul at last is about to resolve the commotion of the multiplicity of phases of comprehension that my eyes throw at it obstinately and the vagueness they seem not to care in which it thus fades magnifies, something it seems must give. Not even the clarity helps.
And it matters little were I to erase everything else. Something still stands in the way. It is as if to shine the perfect light on darkness that beams simply is to make it also dark. The measures I take to tell one from another seem to make it ever more difficult to choose which from the other. Indeed, to convince myself that it is indeed plausible so to do is itself, Sisyphean.
Yet I try. In a sense the difference is clear. In another, it represents the superficiality that is noise. My friends agree it is true, but many, as I, remain confounded. The problem on reflection seems to be the pervasiveness of the idea as much as it is its very nature, we concur. This makes the noise harder to tell and my soul easier to soothe.
In telling myself the need to figure my pain is irrelevant when the pain is universal seems comforting, even if that there is little my infinitesimal soul is able to do to help assuages nothing. That not much is possible then should be clear, except that the concept begs for expression, an understanding in my mind that is to it the balm of the generic soul.
So with time my troubles seem only to worsen. It is as though something keeps weighing me down, an understanding of self that requires a separation from noise that envelopes it and makes it harder to decipher the substance that drives my soul. To have to contend with my ignorance for so long is humiliating, worse still, the perception of a general will akin to the redemption my soul persistently seeks but struggles not to ignore.
For me to accept that it impractical to expect anything then is my bane. At home and at work, it sits amidst the noise that perpetrates its torment and complicates an atonement that seems my way to overcome the pain on which to stop to dwell appears inimical to the very nature of the answers that I seek, something that is so scary even to contemplate it turns my heart red.
Every day is another opportunity it seems to keep up with my soul, which seems way ahead in understanding my eyes, in accepting the wisdom in letting the concept go, assured it is pointless to change the universal will, to modify a continuum of shame my eyes present, lacking the ability to discern it throws at it, in perpetual motion for all to see.
They are usually asleep when I return. As I sit to have a late-night meal all alone, feeling sorry for those who my soul so much seeks to embrace their de-familiarization, the struggle with my eyes continues. It is not that it is unclear that this leaves me few choices but that it is unacceptable to me not to be able to decipher my home just as it pains me to continue to struggle to do so even about myself.
The first thing I decide to do after much agonizing is to be back home earlier so as not to keep ignoring details on my important others in ways that my tortured soul suggests may help me find the answers that I seek but that seem however to lead me ever further afield. Grateful that at last for being able to comprehend the futility in my overly generalized perception of what my eyes see, it now matters little that they blur.
Now my day starts with an effortless desire to live, and not bother about any continuum creating confusion in my mind. Now, it is clear to me that to operate eclectically and pay attention to what may seem at first the trick that my eyes seem to play on my soul with wanton ignominy is my way forward. It is now no longer possible for darkness to masquerade as light.
Sometimes it occurs to me to reverse my ways and imbibe the concept that for many years held sway in my troubled world. The truth though we agree is there for all to see. As reassuring as this is, it boggles to try to explain to my friends that my affirmed simplicity now beckons what we all now agree is slime. It may seem at first seem to differentiate the concept but it actually ultimately complicates it even more.
We agree to move on our faith in humanity unshaken by its much fixity, our appreciation of delineation informed by our eclecticism, which gives us a fresh perspective to whatever concept whenever, and assures our intellectual and emotional appreciation of who we really and the world in which we live.
It has been another day at our usually turbulent meetings, only this time, there is consensus, one as I walk home a few blocks away seems the help I need to erase the noise after all and see clearly the images my eyes present as real and not an attempt to defraud my soul with the figure of shame.
