Everything’s kind of opaque and ineffable.
I mean, one instance I’m animated, happy and glorious, right after that I become quite not implicit and assured, or I am confused and cluttered about life or I’m temporarily in a hodgepodge of feeling something sure-enough and feeling torpid and toom– sort of like I am an out-of-sight landscape devoid of color and peppy life.
That is the moment I thought emotionalism sure cannot be in the same bivouac with life.
Everything’s kind of like that, every single day. Breathing and living became an arduous routine. We were propelled into this state, like a garden-variety of misplaced inanimate objects pushed in a circle, like a prosaic assemblage meant to be displayed or hung in order for a designated niche to look lively and polychromatic, like we were lunged here just so our place wouldn’t look arid and unaccompanied, like we were born into this just so the integral void would be replaced by wights, like we were shoved into this without any given druthers.
We were woebegone lodestones that had been attracted and captured by life.
Living’s been colorful, you know? also tiring, disquieting, and discombobulating. Living became an uncongenial groove, something I wouldn’t want to be near or be placed in, something I wouldn’t want to get wind of, something better left unnoticed or undisclosed.
But when I am surrounded by people I desiderate and I set store by, only life and the way I feel become less onerous and more endurable.
Maybe, just maybe, life figuratively turns into a narrow and rough road when you perambulate by your own bootstraps. Some things are quagmires that are mystifying and hard-bitten to fix when you are broken-down, cloistered and etiolated, but everything becomes painless and lenient when there are people beside you who are willing to peregrinate and carry half the baggage of your pain and are willing to buoy up some of your throes.
In defiance of the mixed and capricious emotions I have, contrary to the uncertainties and debacle I might stumble upon, and knowing how painful and hellacious life is, perhaps life itself isn’t a voyage meant to be lived alone.
Words by Lois Anne Amigleo