On Letting Go

“Writing is a privilege and a luxury. Anybody who whines about writer's block should be forced to clean squid all day.”

- Anthony Bourdain

It is upon these grounds, on a Monday evening, that I have decided to begin something a long time coming.

Here, one will find Paints for Glass Bottles.

I have no aim. I have no direction. I have done no planning other than to purchase this domain for 12 months (with renewal, of course; I'm not completely unhinged).

I am beginning to think this is one of the many keys to a fulfilled life.

Many of us understand the turmoil of a chaotic childhood. I grew up in just such an environment, learning to predict the inevitable storms by identifying patterns of conflict. My strategy was two-fold: carefully defuse the "bombs" before they exploded, or, if escape was the only option, run for cover at the first sign of trouble. A foolproof schema, indeed.

23 has brought with it a stark realisation: my life was shaped by a relentless anticipation of catastrophe. A somewhat painful self-assessment earlier this year revealed a delightful pattern within me—a desperate avoidance of risk and the most stubborn attempts at self-preservation consistently leading to unintended and negative consequences. The irony was not lost on me. Most of the time in any given situation I didn’t even know what I liked, other than stability of course.

Now, before we all get too worried, I am writing to you today because just this morning, something clicked.

Reader, dearest compassionate reader, I don’t give a flying fuck anymore (sort of).

I DON’T CARE (mostly)!

Now, without getting too absurdist, I suppose I just wanted to joyously tell you that I wholeheartedly believe I can't predict or control a single thing that will happen to me—and you probably can't either. Joy, torment, success—everything I've ever wanted is both equally attainable and unattainable.

Of course, before we get too ahead of ourselves, let me clarify: my values, attitudes, and beliefs remain concrete. I am not about to run off and start some new impish life, although that would be fun.

I'll still go to work, send emails, I’ll smile at the lady selling flowers on the side of the road—the usual. The constant pressure to achieve ambitious goals and avoid any pain, though? That's pretty much gone. It just led to misery after misery after misery. Don’t even get me started on the people pleasing side of things. It’s never worth everybody liking you when in actuality, nobody actually likes you.

I’ve made this sound like some sort of grand transformation, but it is really only the beginning of a very long process. I still have an inordinate amount of learned behaviours to get rid of, and I suppose we all need to do a bit of planning here and there.

It’s not as if I’m going to stop trying for the things I want, but more so I am now acutely aware that even the things we work hardest for we are never guaranteed. Now, at this point, I’m sure we’re thinking the same thing. Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for you.

I’m not entirely sure how I ended up so entitled, so confident in my ability to structure a life on a planet that is constantly in motion, either.

With that, I shall bid you farewell for now.

There is no true refuge, only this ceaseless love and its chaos. . .