I believe that if I were caught taking measurements of my bedroom, I would instantly be committed. It will always add up to the same number, like the numbers ink-jetted onto a Calculus exam. You get one chance to get a decent amount of points, one set of possible answers unchanging and un-negotiable. And still, if you remain dissatisfied with the first attempt, and have good rapport with your psychiatrist- a doctor's note may land you a second chance.
But it's not the measurements of this almost square/slightly rectangular room that confine me and instill fear. It's the beams above my head which lead me to a surrender. The beams or floorboards in between my ceiling and the attic floor- I never noticed their faint outline or shadow until I moved back home at age 23. Perhaps the shadows didn't exist until I moved back home, it's fairly possible considering the age of the house.
I am by no means a tidy person. I sit and stare at a pile of stuff in a box, it could maybe be more organized or even filed away in an art folder somewhere, but does it matter? I'm the only one that has no choice but to endure myself- and every man and woman to themselves as well, just the same in that regard. And yet- understanding of this concept is not a problem for my brain. The concept of accepting other's levels and handicaps is what confines me to my own limitations, and so on and so on.
Acceptance? How differently regarded is tolerance, but how necessary both are to a true, consciously aware self in a fully self aware state. But to fully impregnate the brain with the full bounty of total absoluteness of both tolerance and acceptance? Is it even possible? I remain unchanged until scribbles manifest into miraculous depictions of angels in flight.
The weight of the world balances upon those beams and therefore weighs down upon me- in my cell, casted as I am by the shackles I would miss so much. Or is this a relief that I have not yet lived? And what would physics have to say about my fear of the beams? Perhaps I should learn a new fear, like the potentiality of the floor caving in and initiating a black hole Armageddon? Or perhaps the fear of the walls giving way and leaving me sandwiched in between floor and ceiling?
I'm fairly certain a majority of my peers spend their days fearing fears of no such irrationality, and I could only assume their mental health to be more poignant than my own- because if I ever cared to rid myself of my own insecurities and ache, I wouldn't be here now- living a life in fear of the things I cannot change, but could seek help for. If I sought to cure myself, I could only imagine a more boring, undramatic result with not enough stark contrast. And if it were a cure that I was after, if administered correctly in a text book fashion- I would have to ascribe myself to accepting a new level of guilt- of taking full responsibilities for perpetuating what I’ve spent a great deal of my life protesting.
What about refuge, in place of cure? What would the numbers say? Maybe refuge is where I escape to in my head, allowing me to shake out another day. Where would I be without refuge? Where would anyone be without refuge? Or perhaps Freud would condemn refuge as a passive aggressive, repressed laden, ill will type defense mechanism. In this case, we're all doomed, because we're all human and trying to shake it to the next day.
So underneath my beams, sandwiched in between floor and ceiling, and squeezed into these four walls- my cure is refuge.
I once spent a great deal of time meditating on what the wallpaper in my downstairs bathroom was trying to teach me. A cascading array of repetitive floral designs that ultimately bored me, not to my specific liking in the least. But from a philosophical standpoint, I told myself that there must be something to learn from this horrible atrocity proclaiming itself to be decorative wallpaper.
Fixated with intent, I set my focus on high and let all energy be transported to this one process I committed myself to, besides the involuntary processes of living. The same clusters of flowers were repeated all over the walls- right into the kitchen. How horrendous. At least the walls in the kitchen were split horizontally by a decorative wooden trim.
This was wallpaper you could trust, put faith into, because whenever you expected the pattern to repeat- it would! What a theory. But with each degree of faith entrusted comes natural flaw, flaw by design, flaw by human error, etc. So then, if I chose to not trust this wallpaper, to not believe in it, would it not exist? Or would it just not exist to me? Fearing the unknown is the only flaw by design we can entrust. There will always be fear, and always, an unknown.
Age and commitment to its supporting walls were beginning to show the wallpaper's flaws by human error. The seams created by human were now blatantly the first thing that struck you about these four walls. The age of glues began to show at these seams, not outlasting the appeal of the pattern. The seams, the edges of the paper- began to reject itself from the walls. I wondered how long it would take for the wallpaper to completely fail itself, would time outlast the potential life of this wallpaper? So many thoughts unknown.
Overall though, more than 95% of the time, you could trust that the same emotionless cluster of flowers and patterns would repeat themselves at equidistant points within the confines of the life and vastness of its reaches. My fixation was overall satisfied and pleased, despite the aesthetic appeal. So then, if I trust in this idea of wallpaper, does it exist? Even at the littlest amounts of uncertainty?
Like a raging panic attack, this wallpaper was fierce. If I believe in it enough for it to exist, should I just throw everything in and say "I believe in this wallpaper (because it exists)"... even though my aesthetic eye remained dissatisfied? And by what fault do we blame the wallpaper itself? Blame should be placed on the creator, the buyer, the consumer for giving in to stereotypical buying patterns. The consumer could have chosen to paint the wall instead.
So because I trust the predictability of the wallpaper, I love it. Because if you can trust something enough, love will follow. But should love follow simply because of some trust factor? To love something because you can count on it. To count on something because you love it. Are these factors synonymous in the absoluteness of self, love and trust? Or are they simply players working in tandem to the beholder's wills and follies? Fuck if I know. I've loved my fair share of things I shouldn't love; trusted in too many modes that proved dissatisfying...
A great deal of time was spent fixated to solving the equation of the wallpaper, but like everything else, in the most pessimistic sense- nothing was made to be solved besides mathematical equations involving numbers and abstract codes of letters in some variant of a life of their own.
The migraines I suffer, trying to pull logicalities over my corpus callosum. Was it worth it?
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