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I find it impossible to carry out certain tasks half-heartedly. Of course, there are some notable exceptions (e.g. writing up a 30 page report to my boss at 2am concerning the impact of a new foreign exchange system being deployed by our client). However, issues surrounding emotional input or commitment either consume me in whole, or exclude me in totality. There is no middle way, unfortunately. This is problematic for various reasons. Fellow sufferers of this condition, which I’ve handily dubbed obsessive-committal-syndrome, may care to empathise. Thick skin and a tinge of indifference can often act as a measure of security. Yet there are times when such cavalier dispositions are swiftly banished by deflating emotional-barriers. The outcome is a continuous mental preoccupation which is highly consuming, amongst other things.

I wrote the passage below in my attempt at describing sentimental impulses which we often seek to arrest. Or ultimately, fail to. Obviously, the description below is idealistic (I’m a dreamer). I can acknowledge this much. Although, in my defence, the last paragraph does add a measure of realism. I hope you enjoy the short read.

For another week, peace, salaam and take care- my dudes, dudettes, and everything in-between.


Impulse Acquitted

The scent of sentiment will eventually seep through. The dams you construct will spill over. The floods of feeling will engulf your townships. Floods of devotion. Of intensity. Passion. A day will come when you’ll let someone walk across the floor where brittle creeks you once hid.

You will assail this breach. You will be joined at the wrist with the perpetrator- guiding them through the prisms of your glass which life shattered into countless pieces and dispersed across the horizon. But every so often, both of you will roll the fragments together, not to rekindle your reflection, but to recreate clusters of union which out-shadow the past and sanctify your wholeness.

The streams that once breached with aplomb will flow uncurbed into channels of serenity. They will complete the being of a man who seeks less than the heavens promise. One who has been compelled to live through a time-interval between the consciousness of you, and the fulfilment of us.

Yet, do these words really describe our universe? Isn’t language just a silver-tongued lie? Are words not the impure and unavailing ancestors of our actions? Does happiness not look pretty squalid in comparison to the romance of misery and sacrifice? And have you ever considered that the idea of certainty might not live up to expectations?

These are life’s mysteries we can uncover together. The answers may bruise us, but let’s learn to laugh at our injuries, not madden under them.