Intermediacy

It is difficult finding a start point.

There never really is a defined start point until we review everything back. This is, usually after the fact. In retrospect, ideas and actions are either defined by what the outcomes resulted in, or are skewed heavily to redefine a meaning relative to the present. Is there really such a thing as a beginning? Or are chapters divided by states of penance, limbo, struggle? Is experience one huge train of thought only made to seem more complex, or can we define ourselves as being much more than a simple course of linearity?

Time is indeed relative. Thoughts and experiences constantly update themselves either strengthening or weakening our cores. Is it worth unravelling the past to gain a better understanding of now, or do we do this unconsciously anyway? What is it in our nature that forces us to even consider looking into start points if a cumulative weight is always an ever-present colossus? Why bother unravel a tangled thread if we already know what a single line looks like?

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The inner city forces us to retain memory of beach fronts and humid sunsets. A collected experience that balances on margins paper-thin. An uneasy balance of us reminiscing at better days, versus a fantasy of happiness we never really ever witnessed. We retain the stresses of the day, forgetting them as soon as the daily commute is over, only to manage the anxieties like routine. I guess the key is to save stress for things we are in control over, and rediscover the world with the hopes and naivete of our younger versions. But realistically; how independent can we really be?

First published Sept 10 2015, Wordpress