Tales from the Down Under: #17- Fag-Ends of the World

I’ve always aimed to be a nice girl, or I’ve being brought up to be one. It was transparent recently that I was gradually derailing from the justly road onto which a nice girl duly treads. Being in a certain character is not something that is delineated or suggestive, but rather an empirical awareness manifests in that person’s temperament. I sketched in my head surreptitiously the world I map out with which came intuitively one without boundaries or disciplines. I’m still holding the dogged belief that nothing can be explained by anything.

It sounds prematurely maddening but I used to keep in my mind that everything I’d done was done for the sheer effort of striving to be a paragon to my children, if I did have one in the future and I’m sure I will have no matter what. However, the ideal starts to fragment when I’m having troubles impressing my parents. I may be pleasantly malleable but am sure can never be shoehorn into the mould my parents idealized. That was the time when I was alarmed of being deviated to rebellion.

Thankfully my rebellious acts are far from the generalization of one’s warped inclinations to delinquencies. My rebellion is a rather simmering one, bumping my chest intermittently and inducing anger on the most unlikely moments. Anger of failing to assert myself; anger of letting down everybody. It is often at that time when I ponder about what kind of parent I might be in the future, and I see a horrible one.

Courage and fear should really strike up as a couple, a tumultuous relationship they are sharing nonetheless, gnawing their ravishing love. Courage is plucked up only before wearing off by fear. Fear is prolifically accumulated when courage batters down the barrier and eventually batters the fear down also. Nevertheless their mutual love is genuine, notwithstanding the usual display of two anxious to bite each other’s head off. Why every time two clandestinely attached entities are meeting with fight only before leaving in flight? Some say we only dodge from what truly scares us.

I always affirm my courage to be the kind of person I want to be but fear intercepts annoyingly from time to time, bombarding the rite of a person I should have been. When a show ends and the curtain folds, it is no longer important if one could also get any applauds downstage, but whether there is a bolthole to dig in, to hole up and muffle the sighs, the complaints, the tears, the weariness and everything.

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Paintings in Proust: Vesuvius Erupting by J.M.W. Turner

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Musings. Ex Libris

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