Violently Falling

I can’t help but wonder. I wonder about more than I can conceive, which usually leaves me bumbling and stagnant. Perhaps it’s the curse of an imaginative mind, or a gift from the gene pool- either way, it leads me down rabbit holes. I find myself falling down elongated tunnels of darkness, my shoulders scrapped by the rugged walls, my face bruised by the darkness. Is it worth it? Was it ever worth the struggles I’d find myself in, or the complete lack of known direction? It’s a surrendering force that eventually allows you to resurface, but at what cost?

Here are the derivatives of those thoughts that seem to entangle me and hold me captive. They form the basics of every question: who, what, when, where, why. It’s difficult to comprehend the way we go about getting those answers to what seems like the simplest of questions. “Why did he say that?”, “When did he start thinking that?”, or “Where did he think that?”- simplistic questions. I find that when such thoughts pertain to the human being in any way, shape, or form, it’s not right to except a simple answer, or the same answer each time the question is asked. I’ve determined the impossibility of an accurate assumption, conclusion, or straightforward answer to such thoughts, for the human being is by far the most complex equation for another human being’s mind to comprehend.

I can’t say that this unjust fact repels me from thinking such thoughts, or asking such questions, but in turn draws me in even closer, and I find that through my curiosity (another thoughtful, questioning trait of the human being) I strive to come up with as many possible answers to any said attempt. “Why did he say that?”- perhaps he just doesn’t understand the true meaning behind the words he used, or maybe his interpretation differs, perhaps even-dare I say- he knew exactly the turn of events his words would create, and with great confidence, spoke them true and noble. I am unable to tell you which of these possibilities are correct, for it is unknown, even to the speaker, for there are not just layers of psychosis- mental, physical- that these words must travel through, but subliminal layers on top of that, and unknown intentions that are formed by actions done pre and post to the statement made.

Does this mean that no one is responsible for anything said? By no means. For even if your statements are truly unknown to which layer your thoughts have fallen prey to- they are your own, and you are incumbent to the sounds formed by your being. Perhaps this is what really boggles me. For every being is held accountable to what rolls in from the back of their throat, and, like a dancer reaching for the arms of their partner, upsurges into the air. You might think, how unfair for one to be held completely responsibly for something subconsciously said, or taken out of context, or misinterpreted by those who receive it, but know this, by all means are they rightfully responsible. Although those words might have been derived through layers of uncontrollable factors, the option to keep one’s tongue- that is to shut one’s mouth and keep from allowing those vocals to escape into the air- is absolutely controllable by that single being. It’s as simple as keeping your mouth closed.

Why then, you might ask, are questionable things said, statements that hurt, tear, and even eradicate one’s being? For- thoughtfully and rationally said- if one has the ability to restrain such comments, why isn’t that ability taken advantage of? And thus brings us to a complete circle. Those wandering thoughts that dragged me down this endless rabbit hole, tumbling uncontrollably down. I can imagine possible ledges, or vines for me to climb up and out into the fresh air, and clear blue sky. I can imagine popping out the other side, unharmed, clean, and able to continue my life. But what I seem to imagine are only vague possibilities of what could happen- for, just like each human being- I am not in control. I cannot control the way I fall, or the roughness of the walls, the pitch of darkness, the length or speed. I can only control the attitude in which I fall into my thoughts. One might find certain hopelessness, falling into thoughts and questions that seem to only tear and destroy you. But I approach it as an adventure instead of an endless pit. And slowly I’m tearing holes in the walls, my flesh rubbing raw, my hair matted in an entanglement resembling thicket and brush. Lighting a fire in the dryness of my mouth, and surviving on any bait I am able to grasp. But look around. I’m not alone.