The Wayward Scholar

“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” – George Bernard Shaw

I chuckle when I talk, I get it from my father people say – I don’t know if it is truly a similar habit that has been genetically shared or environmentally copied. Nature versus nurture. I think of it as a similar habit to my odd pauses or delayed responses; some colleagues or acquaintances have made this known of me as well. It is interesting there are so many quirks and unique ticks that help make up the full composition of a person.  

I believe both are symptoms of thinking – I know for sure that my odd pauses are inconsequentially a byproduct of analyzing a given situation. Depending on the varying contexts I pause so I can determine what I want to say or whether I am interested in compliance. Think before you speak, think before you act, choose your battles wisely are more than a proverbs in my world but actual verbs that are observable in my behavior.  

However, in this pause, where I find myself most withdrawn and the fullest of myself there are errors in tactfulness and daily wrangling. I am a bit more clumsy than usual.  

The mirror on my wall falls unexpectedly and cracks as I slam the door shut just a little too hard yesterday. My phone cracks for the first time in years, my tiger’s eye bracelet snaps (the second one in two years), my necklace falls apart, and the timeline of my day have become estranged. I am having reoccurring dreams of concrete pouring around my home, trapping me in and tucking me away. I am reminded of how little control I have over most things. How diverse my life education has been and has become but it is consistent in teaching me this lesson. There is no such thing as control but there is a comforting mathematical chaos in the disorder.  

I stare into the broken shards and see reflected, red, puffy and tired eyes. I see pairs of eyes with glasses, large round alarmed eyes, eyes searching for purpose and meaning, eyes full of ambition and desire, eyes full of sadness, eyes confused and angry. I see their eyes and the branches of the lives that have intersected with mine.  

Each splinter through my reflection an invisible jagged wound sketching my form. Is this who I am? Scattered shards cast all over the place? I chuckled looking at myself through the shrapnel. I wondered about this sly chuckle. When did I do it most recently? What was the context, how was I feeling? What exactly has me so damn amused?  

I think of how I am held by a friend for a long moment. We have crossed paths again after a period. I am nostalgic for there is a deep sigh of peace in this moment (at least for me). Suddenly, it is over, and he pulls away without a word and departs with his usual grin already getting lost again in the energy of the night. I chuckled to myself in this moment. It is in these moments that I realize there is an absurdity in this moment that is largely unseen, invisible and unrequited.  

It is amusing in ways how I could ponder a particular subject, thought or question for extended periods of time. Excising and analyzing just for the effect of mental stimulation in solving puzzles and mystery. I have likely experienced this moment, stumbled across this conversation, idea exchange or loving embrace. An emotional remnant from the past has been highlighted and regardless of how close we may embrace or how long of a breath we share – I have been here many times before. There is a precise, acute pain from this thinking that the depths in which we could explore further are being abandoned. We are not going to reach them/reach for them in this moment. 

The absurdity in the moment is how the unseen and the unsaid exchanges between us may speak volumes on its own and leaves me speechless. I am without words but not without sound. That chuckle carries a melody and message less embarrassing than a burp, croak, or choke. I’d rather not stutter a cajole of loose syllables on a heart wrenching broken haiku on closed ears. Is this splintering a loss if being whole the whole time was an illusion?  

It is here that I find that the depth of my emotions is too great, and the language at my disposal too little. Evidence would detail that vulnerability costs more than I can afford to pay. We stopper the impulse to speak further, to conjure protest or to empty our hearts. I have a choice to choke or to impractically reach for depths that are my selfish desire alone. What would you choose? I choose to practice the detachment phonetically and with the short spell of breath, a non-menacing, random, polite and welcome – an easy breezy laugh or a chuckle. 

In a daydream there is another world where awkward laughter is a love language. They would not hear the mimicry of joy but instead hear how much they meant to me. They would hear me tell them how much and how deeply I am appreciating this moment. How truly precious their embrace has been for me. How I long I have loved them even when I didn’t know that I did. Even when I do not yet know that I do. They would hear me tell them I have yearned and have needed their happiness and their freedom, that this gives me peace. In this daydream I offer we remain united, that we remain turned toward each other and we go off into the same direction together.  

As the embrace is broken, the trance is broken and the daydream dissolves into stiff reality. The unseen snap of the broken link escapes me, but the shattering shriek must be something more contained. Something that meets is proportionate the depth that has been traveled and not the depth that lies beneath. There really is no reason to grieve here and there doesn’t need to be somberness in the foresight. There is joy in the moment and there is also absurdity; this contradiction feels most accurate to describing reality. In embracing reality, I am gifted some peace, and I have nothing to fear.  

From this I imagined I would conclude that connections and relationships are often detours on the road ahead. Rather I am imagining that our connections and relationships with others are much like the relationships we have with ourselves. The detours in our reflection and the splintering of our whole selves are the collective pieces added to the broader masterpiece unable to reflect the depth or the complexities that make us who we are. Although, things left unsaid can seem like a mess of disguised shrapnel all detours are still roads back to love.