Ataraxia

Only sometimes does the exact outcome yield. There is invariably an exception, a pause, or an anomaly in how we may predict future consequences to take shape!

I used to think that time was boundless and that an elegant, charismatic self would surely bloom sometime when I traveled through a tranquil, picturesque landscape. The flowery meadow appeared endless in dreams and unwilling to welcome the horizon. I romanticized this expensive panorama could soothe a broken heart in a blink. When the heart heals, I could be on my way to prosperity, a sentiment I cherish. But I never met outcomes in the cranial abode where I lived! A dead man walking, if you have not noticed.

When the leaves fall off and the trees stand bare, yearning for the sun’s warmth, a feeling of apricity swells up deep inside the roots. The trees are not ashamed of their time in hibernation, rest, reflection, and letting go. This is how they prepare for new growth in the spring and say goodbye to a bygone period. I longed for such a blessing and silently wished to become a tree-like creature with their perspicuity! I craved the prospect of beginning anew after a long hibernation, discarding old me six feet under. Instead, I lived inside my head with suffocating and debilitating feelings. In that self-made enclosure—a womb-like reclusive zone in my brain innately failed to ensure consolation for a meaningful span. All ease was short-lived.

The ultimate mayhem, the feeling of betrayal, drowned all my senses many years ago that morning when I realized a countdown stage of my life had begun! A king tide of restlessness thrust me into reality to shake me up of daydreaming—to mark half a century of my life, drift, and monologue that I lived. I turned 50! For a moment, I never felt that I had reached a milestone other than waking up on a remote shore, numbing my sanity. Revived from the rooted pillars of conviction: no souvenirs from the past other than corroded memories that I thought accurate but hardly the reality. I realized the impoverished endgame would appear at my front door with a menacing stare. A possibility that was not in a distant future but was looming! But don’t the trees prevail with their wishes for the sun’s warmth when the frigid winter spills and extends into the summer?

When we hope, we inhale life, ingest a priceless exuberance, and make it reverberate in our minds and bodies. Hope and joy walk the earth with hands clasped. I began to care for my tree of hope to germinate. A desire to sidestep and hide from my inevitable finale for a little longer than the allotted time. A maneuver that pivoted into a false sense of security. I irrationally expected to get a break to linger on my expedition and wander in the stunning topographies. This longing is made in fantasy, and there is not always an explicit answer to the plea. But there would be a fitting prayer for ataraxia that has forever persisted but will never yield true for anyone.