Monday morning coffee

There are some regrets at the end of every line. Especially when the end was camouflaged and you only notice it in hindsight, looking back. When we feel that we have all the time in the world, the line goes on indefinitely. Why worry for the far-away future when for the time being all we have is the now?

I cannot avoid ever having any regrets. Maybe in 4 years, when I’m (hopefully) done with my Ph.D., I will look back and regret half the choices I made. Or maybe it will all turn out perfectly fine and I will be at peace. Either way, this is pure fantasy – nothing ever “turns out” okay just like that. Everything is constantly built and rebuilt, designed and redeveloped, ever-changing and evolving. Honesty, if future Rira regrets what present me is doing right now, well then, fuck her. She clearly has no idea what’s actually going on.

We are all storytellers. Even the people who don’t read or enjoy music or movies. Even those who remain quiet at the dinner table and avoid sharing their lives. We are all tellers and re-tellers of our own stories and events. Nothing ever happens exactly as we remember it – even less as we told it. Events are clouded by our spirits, beliefs, and wants; objectivity is a pure illusion.

Even in our deepest meditative state, we can lie to ourselves – we do lie. What we cannot do is tell the truth. Frankly, because there is no “the truth”. Every single thing is filtered by our experience of simply being human.

It is 8 a.m on a Monday morning and I am writing this as I sip my coffee and prepare for the day ahead. Right now, I have my own version of my day mapped out in my brain. I know my schedule, the tasks that need to get done, the conversations I want to engage in, and even what I’m having for lunch. I know the timeline my day is supposed to follow, according to me. But is that to say I actually know my day at all? Does that mean reality will humbly follow the step-by-step guide I left for it? Not at all. A plan is simply that -a want, a will it, a might. Only the was tells the real story. And, perhaps, not even that, for if I am the one imprinting on it, who’s to say it really was like that?

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