Asking Questions Is So Hard. It's So Pointless To Answer Them

2024 Author: Harry Day | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 15:43

Asking questions is so hard. Answering them is so pointless

It is so hard to fight with someone who has no arms or legs, whose appearance you cannot distinguish among a million others, with someone whom you cannot see, but only feel. There is so much fear and anxiety, so little courage and hope. It is so bold to enter into a conversation with this enemy, so slowly are negotiations about peace, about the hope for a positive outcome of the duel. Diplomacy is powerless, the surgeon's scalpel cuts backhand at the still unhealed wound. Pain and a feeling of loneliness ooze from an invisible wound, longing has permeated the bandage and a halo of depression surrounds me with a subtle scent of impotence. It is so hard for me to understand that no matter what my efforts I will never be able to understand how and where my final battle will take place and whether it will take place at all.

Depression and anxiety, obsessions and compulsions, fear and hate in my head. Longing and shame, guilt and loneliness. How can I overcome them with my willpower, how can I make them leave the shores of my soul and go there, beyond the horizon of my perception so that I never again feel that when I come to the obelisk of fallen hopes on the shore of the inconsolable sea of dreams, I languidly looked up and I would have seen only the concrete peak of the monument covered with gulls. Who knows the answer to this question? Who carries these strict truths of our life in themselves and endlessly tries to sell them a penny in the light of a neon lamp. Gene flew to Egypt long ago.

Each time I see a client in front of me, I always freeze in anticipation of something so new and thrillingly immense, something that will shed light on a dark forest with many paths and, like a lighthouse beam, will illuminate the path to the one walking. Every time I hope that something happens, I can catch a glimmer of hope in my hands and return it with a bright sparkle that will warm you a little better than a paper cup of tea.

Perhaps we are always deceived. Always and in everything, and the essence is only to make sure in practice that our individual illusion can help us understand the meaning of what is happening. Diets and religions, lifestyles and attitudes, patterns and strategies, turning on and off, anxiety and indifference, narcissism and conscience, guilt and shame, black and white, drunk and sober. Who can understand anything about this? What kind of illusion is in fashion today? What will make us happy and why are we not happy today, here and now, as we are? Maybe our misfortune is our strongest and simplest self-deception?

The person sitting opposite me says that he does not know how to fix what is there? And that's amazing because I don't know that either. I become like the ancient Greek philosopher and step aside "the more I know, the less I know." Is a lighthouse in the middle of a dark forest possible? Where did the dove of peace come from in the middle of the raging ocean of passion and unsatisfied lust? Who really killed whom, the wolf's grandmother or the wolf's grandmother? Asking questions is so hard. Answering them is so pointless. The moment of insight is so short. The flash extinguishes the light of darkness and rushes outward to another, and he…. He sits silently in an armchair and strokes the battery with his hand. Shards of meaning bite into his diamond face, leaving behind a beautiful pattern of glitters of lost meaning and time.

Ultimately, we will part ways and regret the unsaid and undone, another missed opportunity, and another moment of our lives lived together. How short he was, how naively serious he was, how we were harmoniously absurd in him.

The hurricane will tear down the old and build up the new. Where did he get this new and where did all the old go? The hurricane is silent, it just turns off the light, flips the sign and closes the door.

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