Like a lion ready to pounce, hidden within a plume of thick blades of grass, its tail wagging furiously in its wake, I sit. Waiting. Stuck in purgatory. Limbo. A state of flux. I know what is coming, yet I cannot quite give up on the part of my life which has expired; ended; drawn to a close, like a candle’s flame being extinguished, or else a raw piece of meat having been left out in the sun too long, flies gathering around to pick absent mindedly at the dead, dry flesh.
I often wonder how easy it is for others to let go, for usually I find myself in a situation whereby my emotional counterpart is showing no signs of external pain, which does not reflect my inner torment: is it because they feel nothing, or because they are hiding their true feelings; dissembling in order to save themselves from the long term anguish, something which I find myself guilty of from time to time. Yet if one feels strongly about something, should it not be that they cannot hide their emotions? I find that when I try to detach, I become a silent angry wreck, throwing filthy looks at passers by whenever I make eye contact. Yet this is not the case with others: there have been countless moments whereby, after an argument, individuals have simply taken themselves off to talk to others in regular, lucid tones. And maybe I get too caught up; maybe I should be more noncommittal – following the majjhimā paṭipadā, rather than becoming an extremist.
Easier said than done, I suppose.