Hallmarks of a good-bad decision

Making decisions has never been my strongest talent. Even as I write this, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to write about. It’s great, isn’t it? I have absolutely zero plan. I wonder if you’ll read on. I’ll probably write on – here in the attic bedroom I have brought my laptop up to especially, only because I have the urge; that formless, purposeless yet driven urgency to find out what I’m finding out about, what I’m figuring out; all via the wonderful medium of webbity blogging. 

Anyway, I think this is my theme: decisions and I don’t always get on. I can see how they’re empowering; it’s a nice, strong act to make a decision and forge forth, not doubting your own logic or turning your head over your shoulder, pursing your lip at that passed point which split you into myriad selves. I admire the trait of decisiveness in others greatly. Sometimes I embody it and it feels as good as people say it feels. I’ve been getting better recently at being aware (aware with a capital ‘eyes closed, palms upturned, turning my attention to the point between my eyebrows’) of the fact that presence of multiple paths (and my freakish wont to identify with all of them) doesn’t mean multiple paths must be immediately explored. I’ve also been inadvertently dabbling with good-bad decisions.

The aftermath of a good-bad decision goes roughly as follows:

  • You are immediately fascinated by your new potential reality. You feel a bit excited. You want to tell everyone about it.
  • When you do mention it to people, that said, you have to concentrate very hard on not accidentally crying. Your voice goes a bit funny, but you’re pretty sure it’s unnoticeable. (You are very good at mentioning it now, but only because you don’t really believe it’s real; instead you listen to yourself announcing your decision as though you’re a strange creature being listened to from above; intriguing, quite fun, but perhaps not quite applaudable).
  • When absent-mindedly babbling (only inwardly) to yourself while applying mascara for a night out about your absolute zen acceptance of being not as strong as you thought you were, or not able to be strong for as long as you thought you would, you are interrupted by some sudden, noisy flapping taking place inside your lampshade. You turn around, expecting to see a moth but see that, although its silhouette is like a moth’s, it is in fact (and you see because it comes out from the shade as though especially to flaunt itself at you, fluttering and hovering in your direct vision) a decadently colourful butterfly. In your room. In November. (Butterflies and you have a dramatic history; such that you roll your eyes and laugh at the sight.)
  • In your car, you (again, babbling to yourself) are snapped out of your inner conversation only to hear the exact words in the middle of a song you weren’t even listening to and aren’t familiar with playing on the radio; the soulful, breathy crooning: ‘don’t give up; don’t you dare give up’. It’s almost aggressive. (Cue snort laughing, again).
  • While walking to your car after a party during which you were dressed as a Victorian vampire, you bump into a man you once went on a date with, who is just standing there, alone in the street as though expecting you. He asks you about the thing, you tell him your new decision about the thing, and he says quite simply (with the air of someone who is very good at decision making): ‘I don’t think that’s the right thing to do’.

So I am sulking now. And trying to find a new way forward, while also clinging to denial. Wish me luck with finding a good-good one; I doubt there’s any rush.

 

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