apathy, anxiety and ambiguity

Farewell august, you were kind [could have been kinder]

🌾🌒

August sunsets always seem to have an apology in them.

It’s setting already at 7:10 pm, burning a satiated yellow, rays inundated with regret.

Its mouth is full, it tells me sorry for its inconsistency. I apologize, in return, for not coming around as often, and for hating this final act of summer as I always do.

I characterize the denouement of the season by the reluctance to step outside, hasty applications of SPF before succumbing to the August air, thick with the scent of gas and metallic sterile pause of rain before it begins to fall.

Now, on this August evening, I eye a dead bee, lying stiff on its back, at the bottom of the window sill.

I remember when I wrote about my own laughter, years ago, and described it as “a thousand bees hiccuping against the emergency window.”

This is the metaphor — the end of my childhood. All but a hollow head, thorax and digits curled onto itself.

- ☆ -

Starting a new chapter of adulthood always feels a little unreal. I’ve spent the month oscillating between apathy and anxiousness. And in my preparation for this new start, I’ve tried to convince myself the hallmark of my maturity lies in the ability to silence myself. To think before I project my worries into cyberspace and ask myself if I’ve sat long enough to peruse through my thoughts on my own first.

Initially, I planned to write about my summer, and the harrowing reality of being patient with your own growth (or lack thereof) — of learning the difference between being and having patience. I only came up with unfinished ideas:

• Learning to conceptualize patience, as an ongoing state of being as well as a quality of one’s character

• the choice(?) to exhibit patience. Of enduring the tightrope walk of going from point A, to point B and back again

• …

• Do I have to enjoy patience every step of the way or can I leave wiggle room for anger? just a snack size portion… as a treat

In all honesty, the details of it felt a tad bit too personal to even flesh out. So much so, I had to ask myself how important were my worries, in the grand scheme of things, that I had to dedicate this much energy to unpack them. Regardless, the definition of patience requires there to be the existence of a lived hardship or trial.

I’ve characterized summers with this almost routine sadness, (mayhaps L*na del Rey was onto something when she wrote Grammy Award-winning 2012 Electric Pop-hit Summertime Sadness). Where I think the average person dreads the loss of longer days, I’ve found I’ve always needed the fall as a palate cleanser, a fresh start.

Wheat Field with Cypresses by Vincent Van Gogh (1889)

August 12, 1914
The Diaries Of Franz Kafka 1914-1923

And yet, I must use the age-old analogy of two wolves residing inside me! One that recognizes the cyclical nature of life and how, ideally, most things will pass or the conditions of accepting them become easier. This one understands the joy and promised ease after difficulty.

However, the other knows how to lament; craves it even. It dreams of long-winded complaints and the shameful but equally satisfying feeling of relishing in your own misfortune.

I can come to internally covet my own painful experiences, proclaim over and over “these are mine” to no one in particular because who could deny me? These feelings are so wholly felt by myself, how could I not foster them inside me? Greet them like welcomed guests and offer up a warm bed to sleep in.

As I grow older, I have willed myself to hold onto my unhappiness and grievances with a tight grasp, tie the knot and remember it’ll pass.

And as unceremonious as this conclusion is, it does.

Of the things I have learned, one is that I personally cannot be empirical about my own perceived suffering. At least, not in full.

The phenomenon of insecurity and uncertainty is that it has the potential to burgeon and metastasize inside of you. And in its wake, I’ve come to know that I can not outsmart these woes by pretending they do not exist.

You can pick apart the objectivities of your circumstance, and rely on rationality to make sense of your problems. True.

But when I corner the parts of myself that need compassion with a calculated and meticulous plan, the solution will simply not materialize as a result of my preparation.

There is truly only so much we can control.

This cryptic and ambiguous spiel aside, I can assure you, for now, that I am okay.

So we get back to the whole idea of patience once more. Of biding my time and trying to keep an eye on the parts of my disposition that are itching to water seeds of resentment.

Reminding myself that I don’t need to have all the answers to fix myself at this moment; before the season comes to an end.

Before my frontal lobe develops and before I realize there was never even a finish line, to begin with.

September will roll in all the same, with cool skies that hold the mirror of daylight up. And the sun will hang her head and smile at us less and less.

As autumn dawns, I hope you find relief.

Remember on this earth, there is always forgiveness for you.

With love,

Amira