Living is so dangerous

February 17, 2015

All men eventually come to the knowledge at some point in their life – living is dangerous. I am not even talking about jumping out of planes living. Or even the sort of living that requires one to operate heavy machinery. Just ordinary and mundane everyday living can be frightfully dangerous.

The sort of living permeated with litany where each day starts and ends like one prayer bead slipping over another seamlessly – where the only difference between today and tomorrow and the day after is the sudden realization. You need a hair cut. Or that you’re running out of toothpaste.

Yes……Ordinary living can be highly dangerous.

For those who come to this sort of knowledge latter than most men. There is always a poignancy. A cruel irony even – that life is never neat like a row of white picket fences, it’s an awfully messy affair: a muddle of desires and inhibitions and compromises where one literally has to get by….as best one can…as best. Usually with copious amounts of potluck along with superglue and ductape.

When this man looks back at his entire life like someone who sits in a darkened movie theater somewhere in his head – watching the matinee, ‘this is your life.’
He laughs at all the missed opportunities that once came his way. That’s only because he prefers to see himself in the third person. The self imposed distance insulates him enough to keep him whole. But as this man watches on. Soon his laughter turns into a sort of languor. Eventually he falls silent lost in his own thoughts as he watches impassively how fate has always conspired again him. Suddenly this man mutters to himself as if thinking aloud – living is so very dangerous.

He watches how his once placid marriage devolves into a horror movie. Somewhere between wondering whether he should just walk right out of this movie theater and realizing even if he did so, it would hardly change anything at all – since it’s all been played out in some darkened corridor in his mind.

The man suddenly resigns himself to finding a comfortable spot on his chair- it’s as if he has suddenly adopted a militant disposition to do absolutely nothing….to even allow despair to descend upon him like a thick fog. This he must do…to get safely to the other side. He needs to know whether the movie will end with the classical Hollywood promise of redemption….he hopes it will.

When the movie finally ends. The man continues to sit all by himself in this darkened hall….this palace of decaying dreams? No….not dreams. He can’t be sure how to call this place. He can’t seem to find the right word. Not just yet, but he’s sure it will come to him latter….it’s always like regrets…like a slow burning fuse.

He now suffers from no delusions about his own place in the world. He may finally concede others may find him absurd and that his intellectual contributions to his arcane field are at best minor….inferior even. I wouldn’t go so far as to say this is resolution – perhaps a sort of reconciliation would be a better way to put it. Like how a man switches his bag from the left to the right to stave off tiredness with the knowledge that he may have to continue to rhapsody of languor till he comes to a resting place.

Meanwhile. Over and over again, the images that once projected on the silver screen begins to replay somewhere in this man’s head. Again and again….fragments of memories scissor thru the present nudging him ever so slowly to that point of reckoning. Till all that remains a solitary man in an empty cinema compelled to confront his own reality.

Yes….who could have possibly imagined living…just ordinary…benign…cosy insiderism living can be so very very dangerous.

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