I can’t control a lot of things or even many things. I know that, and I’ve known it for a long time. For the most part, there’s comfort in that. It absolves me of the need to influence things I have no say in. I can let go, relax, let fate take its course. H has no play in this game.
At other times, however, I find myself trying to interfere nonetheless in defiance of logic and rational thought, striving to do and be, to exert myself on something for which I’m unwilling to relinquish responsibility. It’s an impulse both of control and existential desperation. H must act.
It’s that too and fro that has patterned much of life, and I’m sure much of human existence. I don’t know that it’s a bad thing even if so often it is futile and exasperating. It doesn’t always feel right to sit and observe. It’s the doing that accounts, or at least the pretence of it: I tried.
I find myself facing this conundrum once again. As I described earlier, I’m sad that some of my decisions might inadvertently have caused heartache to someone else. I can’t go back and change things, though. What I can do is try and make it good now. The problem is I can get no traction. I can’t make people listen to me. I can’t make people like me again. I can only try.
I find myself fluctuating between two poles. Between acceptance: yes, it’s sad, but it’s history now and the moment has passed, and there is no more I can do. Then there is the other pole, more fundamental to me I think: it’s wrong to leave it at that without trying to make it better.
A little honesty and candid conversation would go a long away, I figure, but I can’t get to that point. We stumble before it. It’s like a wall I can’t get by, and it gives me the shits. I want to make it clear that whatever she may have come to believe, I’m actually quite a decent bloke and have no desire to make things difficult.
For now, it’s not about what I can and can’t do. All I can be is full of grace. The future is all unrequited possibility. Anything can happen.