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Why? Indeed a question that comes back often.
The answer can’t be so evident. I believe that it’s a question that we can’t prevent from asking oneself. Would it be that man must experience the whole of his life trying to understand what’s happening to him?
For my part, I succeeded in taking a contemplative attitude, and it worked. Life happens with its waves of experiences of all sorts and we, indeed, have no need to worry. Obviously we can’t understand anymore than the neighbor what’s occurring, but its as if while undergoing, observing no resistance, its flowing better. Maybe an cowardice attitude to not try to add our grain of salt some will say…
You know, when you tell yourself that your path is already defined, and you’re convinced of this, it isn’t always true. The big lines are there, but what’s the interest of living according to those said lines, that are being drawn against the wear of time, or is it more fulfilling to find the strength and the vigor to trace oneself his own path, with its clutter, its shortcuts. I often have the impression of living out of improvisation, not day-to-day, but second-to-second.
The second gives a special taste to life. This is as if nothing can astonish you, because you already envisioned it; nothing can scare you for you already thought about the worse and despite it all, all pleases you when it produces itself. This is as if you were rediscovering every instant, because it has a special flavor. To try to give meaning to the expression “that’s the way it is…” is a futile task.
From this standpoint, one sees although the game, the relation that exists between the events and the emotions. As far as that can appear, its a costly process to the individual. Although being witness of the source of the human emotions, it seldom can participate fully. I am not justifying for society’s lack of emotion, I am rather trying to explain how to function facing the events, facing the people, facing the things that occurs, that leaves a scratch to the surface and often dig a trench under the appearances of someone that seems distant, folded inwardly.
After “why?” comes obviously “what’s to do?” Let the water flow under the bridge? Let time close the wound? Even under the best-healed wound one can find a heap of disgusting pus, that will require surgery. Surgery one cannot do by himself. Even accompanied, this proves to bea very delicate endeavor that asks for reflection, consultation, attention. For once the first incision’s done, its the non-return point. While I think of this, the success of this operation would make the subject someone just like all the others, the same subject that flattered itself to be different from the remainder.
Where’s the need?
Where’s the lack?
Where’s the obligation?
Where’s the choice?