Thinking

Last year my friend told me that my English teacher had told them that I was “woke.” It wasn’t really something I had ever thought of myself ironically, but once it was mentioned I realized that it did feel like other people were not as conscious as I was. As if they lived in a world completely separate from my own. I chalked it up to only being able to live life as the person you were born as, some sort of main character syndrome, but I’ve come to learn that this isn’t the case. Not because of an astounding amount of “wokeness” on my part, but my observations of other people who are as conscious as I am and live their lives just as deliberately. I’ve learned through conversations that some people genuinely do not think the same things and the same ways that I do. Certainly it seems that I think things through more thoroughly than they do, but this doesn’t necessarily mean that my thinking is right or indeed even better than what they do. Shakespeare has demonstrated and constantly reiterated that excessive thought mellows action. I blame my constant overthinking for my lack of initiative. After a certain incident I decided to repress all my thinking to prevent pain. I thought that if I could just stop thinking it wouldn’t hurt so much, and I was right. It didn’t hurt me, but it did hinder me from doing anything. Living life without thinking is mindless. It’s monotonous and boring and devoid of meaning or feeling. That’s what I wanted at the time. It was a way to get away from everything; however, now that some time has passed I’ve begun to think again. I guess that must be evident from this post. My personality and my identity is completely reliant upon my ability to analyze and examine situations and people. Without my ability to think, I am not a useful human being and lack and reason for existence. I provide nothing. There’s no reason to choose me over anyone else if I can’t do the one thing that most other people can’t. It’s something that I’ve developed and it would be a shame to toss it all away for something that was out of my control. So I’m back to thinking. I’m back to feeling all the hurt and emptiness that it brings with it. And I’m accepting what happened to me as some cruel twist of fate instead of something I messed up. Even accepting that hurts because it means that I am once again seemingly at the mercy of some cosmic force that revels in my unhappiness, but i have no choice. The pursuit of happiness is laced with tears and shattered dreams, but the goal at the end is too enticing to pass up. Contentment.