I have reached quite a strange period of my time here on this earth. It is a period where questions that were never ruminated surface, the way tiny lime bobble in a cup of water.
I had always engaged my imagination in scenarios of marriage and in the commitment and courage it requires, but I wasn’t ever exposed to whatever any of that means. I didn’t — don’t — know anything. So I feel excited. But I also feel an ambivalent anxiety that I can’t comprehend properly to express.
I am twenty years old. I am in my third year of university studying psychology in an American university adorned in Arabic roots. I am to graduate a semester early for my transferred credits from an international baccalaureate diploma I had earned in a high school that was American adorned in Arabic roots. I had grown up amidst those Arab American roots until my own vines were girthed in its third culture blood. I hardly ever blossomed, but a lot of other trees shed their leaves and sheltered me inside a golden placenta of feeble words and faces. Words and faces. I’m not really thinking about the words I’m writing — I’m trying to envision some form of poetry to weave its way through the letters but I’ll acquiesce to the ill redundancy and misplaced syntactical understandings. It’s fine I guess, my thoughts remain at a disarray that hampers any familiar motivation to fix my sentences. I am just trying to understand my own thoughts and feelings. “Evincing” them out is how I know how to, I guess.
Word choice was so paramount on this platform. Meaning and accuracy alike. But what it has become is akin to some nebulous memory of thought vacuousness and too much spare time. Histrionic, I know, and only pleasant feelings arise as I remember the beginning of this, so it has become an unspoken subliminal attachment, or commitment rather, to a thing that wasn’t ever required. I suppose humans do this to themselves all the time. I suppose we commit to nothing when we lose purpose to gain something in the process. Meaningless meaning that directs us to facile emotive behavior. Specious and senseless. Regardless of that — commitment is tough.
I don’t know if marriage is tough. I know of examples I’ve observed though never experienced. I also know of books I’ve never read. I suppose it’s a similar kind of ignorance. Perhaps it isn’t. I am stifling a shrug.
I can’t pinpoint a spot for recognizing how I feel. I know it’s a blend of fear and contentment, but sprinkled with anxiety and sweetened with detachment. An end of a life is approaching somehow, in however eerie or forlorn form it takes, that personified reaper is moving. So I guess the flour of fear is tinted in death. I assume a portion of that consists of a lack of doing or a lack of knowing — emptiness is always scarier. The eggs are excitement. They spill on sections of the flour sporadically, maybe stupidly. Eggs always make a mess. The vanilla is mature and analytical, it is smiling waiting for something to mix with, it’ll make it better and I suppose it is confident of that. The rest of the mix is pretty futile, and who knows where the oven is or when it’ll preheat. The point isn’t to bake the stupid cake. I just want to freaking calm down.
Still not sure how to define how to evince — I think some days are more difficult to parse and hence impossible to expound. I think one of the keys is a patient one. What’s best will come if you ask for it, but I just need to be reminded of why I want it in the first place.
Heaven and heaven and heaven. Heaven and heaven and heaven.