Why do we write? We write to rid our selves of things we cannot do so by any other means. So here it goes.
You know there are moments in our lives which despite our greatest effort to forget, they stubbornly latch themselves into our mind. They sneak up on us when we least expect it--almost an ambush--like in a middle of really good song playing in the background. I have got plenty of these, and unfortunately for me, my mind allows this with a passion. It takes a sliver from a rich repository stashed somewhere, and it stretches that out to a point where the edges are no longer visible. It presses "play", and I find myself reliving those moments in its adulterated version--often with the benefit of menacing soundtrack. It is the worst.
On other, more sober, days, I wonder why it is so hard to prevent these episodes from recurring. I have been told that worrying means caring, and by extension, whatever I irresistibly obsess about must necessarily means a lot to me. But there must be healthier and saner ways--or at least one other way--to gauge the degree of care one has in respect of these worthy things, and perhaps one that is not as excruciating and unpredictable, one that--with some work--is docile and manageable.
This is ironic given that I have made it a point this year to honor my devotion to religion. Sadly, in the heat of these episodes, the holy voices often feel to be very far removed, almost inaudible--and as much as I believe psychology has the power to overcome biology, in practice our baser instincts tend to clinch victory before even its panacea has time to rev up its engine. Maybe this is why people who truly devote themselves to their religion, decide to stubbornly live there--maybe only when one is completely steeped in one's religion would the holy voices be loud enough to drown out the antics of the mind.
It may be worthwhile for me to try to be so uninhibited and unflinching in my devotion to religion--as it turns out I am more easily conquered by my baser instincts than I wish I was. And it is certainly a better method than what I have at the moment: where I let those moments play over and over, at varying intensities, and over and over, regardless how relaxed or tense I may be at the time, and over and over--up to a threshold where I become numbed. I am once told if you repeat something over and over, it loses its meaning. When it loses its meaning, it loses its sting. So in the mean time, I hope that this is true--because I am still waiting for the episodes to be finally over.
