So I sat here and tried to write. Write about freedom. About the incredible people whose dedication has been inspiring me lately, about the ideas I’ve mastered over periods of listening, reading, debating and understanding.
I sat down with the sole intention of writing about concepts and philosophy. I decided I was going to write about the satisfaction I cherish over being able to never fool myself into thinking that, staying in the dark and hanging on to whatever ignorance I was never smitten with, was my way out of misery.
I sat down and stared at the white screen as I quietly waited for the right words to come to me.
Well, it didn’t happen. Ideas never translated plans into words and all I could possibly focus on was how sad I felt. I intellectualized my sadness, of course. I knew its cause, I knew exactly what led me to feel this way and why, as a human being, I’m vulnerable to this particular kind of pain. I understand the pain I feel and reason with it, however, it refuses to reason back. I am left behind, empty-handed, without assuming I have any rights to debate over what it is that I should do after feeling the way I do.
My pain has a name and because its name is cursed and its owner has left the building, the idea of him is all I have left. When an idea, not individuals, is all one has left to look up to, intellectualizing emotions is nothing short of extraordinary.
As I sat and contemplated how the belligerent feeling took over, I noticed my emotional actions could and should be forgiven.
I was, after all, crying for an idea and a good idea is as mighty as a mountain. It is the fabric I use to fashion my convictions which, like the skin that faithfully encases my body, is always ready to keep me together even through the most ferocious of rants. ~