a little bit of hope
I have a very stable tendency of never being consistent. If there is only one thing certain in my whole personality or existence it’s exactly this one: I can count on my instability when trying to count on myself. This could be the weirdest oxymoron ever written or the ugliest truth about me. Or both? But maybe you can relate. Let me give you some examples.
I don’t like to work out. No wait, let me rephrase it: I don’t like the thought of working out, more precisely the effort I have to put into that first moment, when I have to wear a tracksuit and go out in the cold (don’t even get me started about being in a gym with people) for the ultimate goal of feeling sweaty, achy and tired afterwards. I know that exercise is good for me, not only because everyone goes on about it, but mainly because I’VE TRIED IT MYSELF. And yes, you all are right. It made feel good, invincible, great, beautiful and even hot. Guess what? I haven’t ran in three months.
I don’t like to be the person who raises their voice when talking about something that’s close to their heart. Since I was 15, people thought I was angry at them, waving and flattering my hands around. Sometimes I even cry - pathetic. Yes, being Italian could be affecting this trait of mine, but it’s not pleasant, is it? So I firmly decided I would breath deeply and count to ten-thousand before letting go to that warmonger instinct I have. “I’m going to leave the room if need be”. Yes, again, it’s so hard.
I am not going to buy chocolate this time. It’s just off my shopping list, until I lose 4 kgs. End of. And there I am, climbing to the highest shelf in my kitchen, where I remember hiding some sugary cookies months back.
These are very silly examples, only because I don’t really want to expose every aspect of my being, not too much (for that you can always listen to my songs). What I know is I’m full of myself on some days and completely disheartened on others. On the top of the world and then buried in the deepest layers of the sphere. It’s a rollercoaster, but not the fun type… more the one you regret buying tickets for the moment you jump on board. It’s exhausting. But, then..why I can’t seem to change? I might not be alone though, so maybe it’s worth scooping it out:
Do we have to hit rock bottom to eventually realise that life would be easier and fulfilling if we forced that extra effort and, say, put that bloody tracksuit on to go out for a run?
Are we actually scared of change? Because, ultimately, we are very comfortable in who we are right now, flaws and all. But, a better version of us? Who knows what could happen to them? How far could they go? Scary. Or, what if they change and then nothing happens? Thanks, but no thanks.
Are we feeling guilty or undeserving of unconditional happiness, because of other peoples’ unhappiness and frustration? Maybe someone very close to us?
As much as I find it hard and terrifying, I realised that having a dig inside the most uncomfortable parts of myself, and asking me annoying questions, is usually the best remedy to this dark, nonsense existentialisms.
Today I thought a new thought. A very banal, simple thought..although my brain never elaborated it before and it kinda set off the light bulb on a little bit of hope. I’ll leave it here, do with it whatever you like:
There’s absolutely no reason why we have to spend our whole life being someone we don’t like.