If today’s actions are what I will harvest tomorrow, then today, and I mean every second of it, becomes terrifyingly important. If I want to become the person who I want to be, then let me consider what it is I want to be.
My life feel so crowded – it’s disorienting how many myriad intentions are being played out, and I suspect a lot of them are just momentary pleasures, that may detract from long-term goals. Too often my actions are not well thought out; there is no agenda, no underlying plan. Or my actions betray mixed or multiple agendas. Or they may betray a lack of foresight, the repetition of the same error, the same stumble, the same fall, without seeming consciousness of what it is that made one trip – only the bitterness of the taste of sand in one’s mouth.
Have to force myself to become more pragmatic, (in a more officious voice):
- Must research how to make action plans, to give an underlying agenda to my actions.
- Must continually modify and tweak and track progress, revise any mile stones, or update changes in my objectives, and deliberate on the realism of my aims.
- Must update my plans with lessons learnt, to notice and record what it is that I’m doing – when I trip or fall for example. And have a plan for next time when feel that disconcerting feeling of falling, better yet avoid it altogether if I can.
And everything is so secular. There are only slight glimpses of the Hereafter, the slightest breach of the wall. And any habits seems stultifying and seems to deaden me more, than make me grasp at the heavens above. Occassionally, stray beams of light blind me, and then back to darkness I find myself stumbling – fleeting, disorientating they were, leaving me bemused as I go.
Overwhelmed; freedom is no small burden. This feeling has not left me for years and I seem no closer to lifting that fog. There is no doubt I feel closer to becoming a certain kind of person but in spits and spurts, with three steps sideways and two back. And always, striving without a clear end of where I’m going – kicking, punching, sometime screaming, fighting in a vat of olive oil.
My promises haunt me. To have sold myself, my feelings, my very life, for a greater glory. To what extent where these promises true?, to what extent where they merely the intoxicated words of a young man? Deader am I now, hands are rougher, skin coarser. Will I find myself amongst those who break their promises, amongst the liars or will I find myself amongst those who tell the truth?