Mind Weeding: Grassy Thoughts from Floral Thoughts

Very often you find adults only accepting the love they think they deserve, and they find this in the nooks and crannies of debilitating friendships and unhealthy relationships. They remain as disguised children who crave for the love they barely received from their parents. Very often you find that these parents behaved as such because they felt restricted to spoil their offspring with care, warmth or attention, because they themselves hardly collected throughout their own childhood. When is it appropriate for a generation to get off their asses, stand up for what they want and stand their ground until they get it? When is it appropriate for a generation to do something so out of their conventional norms so that another child doesn’t have to live another day with crippling thoughts that seem to scream “I am unwanted”, “I am worthless”, “I am forgettable”? Very often there isn’t a universal agreement for the necessity of these notions— these ideals — these foundations for, simply put, common sense. Fast forward a few evolving centuries, very often we see a spike in adolescent suicide. I fear the median age will lower as the world keeps turning, unbeknownst to its savage vindictiveness not even wanting to work for its vindication.

To be fair, I guess modern availability of information has made a few of us to feel inclined to believe that ‘common sense’ is relative. Subjective. Transformative. Dependent on the brains taken hostage by different personalities. Chicken and egg. Which one creates which? Because I find myself noticing that different parts of myself come out at different times, when speaking to different audiences, and especially when speaking to different personalities of different human beings. For a slither of a period in my lifetime, I thought for sure I was a victim of BPD. But really, I was a victim of my own paranoia. I realised, quite harshly, why do I deny myself the same goodness I preach to everyone I care for?

I wasn’t talking about suicidal millennials, or children deprived of childhoods, or adolescents crawling their ways out of calamities.

I was talking about me.

I didn’t think I’d be able to write anymore. Do me a favour — picture a rolling brush being dipped in a bucket of white paint, then it floats itself to a concrete wall and it begins to roll and paint by itself in an upwards-downwards motion. Up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down. Dip. Up and down, up and down, up and down. That’s what it felt like. That’s what it feels like sometimes. It’s as if my brain is in a constant state of watching paint dry, but if that’s not enough, I continue sitting and staring until the paint peels off. That’s half the time. The other half, my mind feels like there are dangerous fireworks going off in one corner in my brain, and another corner has my bare hand punching the wall until the skin scratches off my knuckles and begins bleeding. A large component of that part of my brain has about ten different trains of thoughts going in the same direction — a vehicular crash is impending — every thirty seconds.

Does anybody else feel the same way?

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