paradox

I can hardly remember the past. Even the small, fleeting moments of realization have faded into a hazy blur. Chasing sole stimulation these days, I must be living wholly in the present. Perhaps this is what it means to live faithfully in the now—pouring all my senses into a flicker of sensation, a jolt of stimulus, only to forget it moments later.

A peaceful daily life is incredibly pale. Morning feels like afternoon, day feels like night. Time blends softly into one, without clear edges. I often look back, and just as often look ahead. It is peaceful and comfortable, and for that very reason—tedious.

Life in the present, on the other hand, is thick and vivid in every minute and second. So much comes in, and just as much flows out. It is as clean and precise as a cut from a blade. If I could squeeze these moments tightly in my hand, it feels like they’d yield something salty and rich—like a broth boiled down to its essence.

I am passing through days circling the corners of useless worries. If I list them without order...

The first is that the value of making plans has faded compared to before. A tidy life, one that takes good care of me, has its advantages, but it is also dull, lacking in color. Dullness isn’t always bad, but at this point in my life, it is not quite ideal. An older acquaintance once told me, “You’re a diligent, upright person—but just that. You stay within the range of the predictable, so there’s no curiosity to go further.” They hoped I’d try stepping outside that frame.

The best way to do that, I think, is not to make plans at all. So I haven’t. It is inconvenient, and yet deeply comfortable. To avoid falling apart, you need vigilance—but I’ve decided I also need the practice of falling apart. So I am, awkwardly, uncomfortably.

The second is that it has become difficult to keep the subject as me. I’ve let go of the will to define myself firmly, and in doing so, everything became a little softer—the types of people I welcomed in, the things I could now attach my name to. Paradoxically, in letting go of “me,” I felt a little more like myself. My softened edges slipped easily into a wider world, and that world turned out warmer and kinder than I had imagined. In the beginning, I was the one reaching out; later, even when I was tired or falling behind, people pulled me back into the circle. It was the first time I truly felt a part of us.

Now that I’ve had to leave that world, I worry—am I swaying without my center? Do I need to solidify heart, body, and self again to live healthily? Until I find, or create, a world to melt into again, perhaps I need to regroup.

The third is that the meaning of life keeps flipping like a coin. At times, it was love. At times, people. At times, simply—me, me, me. There were days it swelled into sharp shapes, stuffed with justice, human affection, a sense of duty. And days when just breathing, just a beating heart, just a moving body, felt meaningful enough to smile at, loose and light.

I won’t die anyway; I have neither the will nor the courage to. If I keep living somehow, the meaning will fumble its way back to me. That’s the soft conclusion I draw at the end of the day, scratching my head for no real reason.

The biggest concern, perhaps, is the lazy recorder I’ve become—who puts off writing things like this until two in the morning, and then, on a whim, pours them out in one go. If I recorded every moment that felt worth writing down, I could fill a book in no time. Maybe my memories have grown faint because I let my drifting thoughts float away so carelessly.

I should give myself a good smack to wake up—but then, I like this staggering, pleasantly existing self too much, and so I leave them be. Right now, as both my most devoted director and my most loyal audience, everything—whatever it is—feels good, and enough.