Expectations are the root of all disappointments – my newest, latest discovery. I expect, and fall, dust off my jeans, dab on some antiseptic, and then expect again. Masochistic? Puerile? Stupid? Depending on how you look at it, all, or none of the above.
Epiphany?I'll say.
It's been hovering at the edge of my subconsciousness. You know, that uncomfortable place in your head where brief little flashes of insight crop up at the least opportune moments, but not long enough for you to grasp, kind of like trying to remember a dream once you've woken up – the harder you try, the less you remember.
I've always thought of myself as reasonably intelligent, reasonably in tune with my thoughts and reasonably sound of mind, when not dreaming, deluded or intoxicated – some of these happen so rarely however that they don't really leave much of a mark. Someone once very close to my heart once quoted Hemingway, saying that you should write when drunk and edit when sober. How profound. How true. And how difficult to do when coffee is your best friend not alcohol, and certainly not something cool enough like a JD or bourbon. So I write and edit stone cold sober, unless you count a caffeine high.
I expect. All day long, every day, every week, and all the other variations of time slots that you can find. I expect people to call, I expect people to care, I expect love, I expect affection, and all without conscious thought. But what happens when people don't call, people don't care and people don't love or show affection? Does it make me insensitive to not care?
No.
It makes me liberated.
So, in my newly found state of self acquired wisdom, gleaned no doubt from some self serving website or book, and stored by my brain in a place far enough to qualify as the back of my mind, I now begin to stop expecting. You know what that does? Every phone call, every word and gesture becomes a surprise. (And if I sound like a self help book, I'm sorry, really, it's very hard to be wise and not sound preachy, but with 29 years of wisdom, and not enough avenues to dispense it, times are tough).
Don't get me wrong, I haven't succeeded – realization, does not always equal implementation. In fact they rarely co exist simultaneously in matters of emotional intelligence – but it's a step isn't it? Wasn't it Gandhi, or someone equally prone to making profound pronouncements, who said, 'Find purpose, the means will follow'? Used in a rather successful (or perhaps I mean intelligent) ad campaign for a finance company, it graced a prominent hoarding, and found a place in my cluttered mind. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm at all normal.
But who cares?
I'm liberated.
And that's a whole world cooler than normal.
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