In every situation, established patterns tell a story and whisper a secret.
Lately, I seem to dwell in the grey areas of my being. My thoughts wander to unknown places.
In the strangeness of the void, the familiar feeling has always been a yearning for the hidden stories that underline existence. These patterns spin their webs across vast yet similar realities.
Seven people were hit by the same force. They were in different stages of life. Some were younger, some older, but years down the line, some remained unable to escape the wreckage.
The destabilizing effect of this force extended beyond what the eyes could see. One hit affected seven lives.
In another reality not far away, similar patterns emerge in the lives of the old, young, and infants. These patterns tie these people together, connecting them through habits, behaviours, achievements, and success.
Spun from the same trees, different seeds scattered on different soils. I wander and ask what made some seeds thrive while others failed.
The conditions that facilitate survival are known, but the reason for the randomness remains unknown.
There are answers to explain this phenomenon. Answers to give meaning and hope for something better. By nature and nurture, people are created. Someone rolled the dice years ago, and different numbers came to life.
"Stock" is a word I find exciting. In other words, all cells come from pre-existing cells. A good stock will most likely produce good offspring. Bad ones are most likely to produce terrible ones.
The content of an individual could be gold, but certain inherited patterns can inhibit the expression of this hidden potential. All anyone would see is a rusty old exterior, not the gold inside.
Everyone knows they have the potential to be great growing up—an inherent feeling that they are destined for more.
As a child, I often wondered how others lived. We exist simultaneously in the same world and reality, yet with different subtle expressions.
Now, looking back and trying to recall that innocent childhood feeling, I am too distant from the child I was to recapture my innocence.
Children always see the light side of life. Not yet formed by the circumstances of their existence. The patterns have not been absorbed consciously or unconsciously.
A son lost his father. I cannot possibly know exactly how he felt, but I can say he was sad, hurt, and uncertain about his future.
He would have asked himself, "How do I move forward?" "What becomes of me?" "I am helpless in my own situation."
In all this confusion, time continues, and nothing pauses to acknowledge the loss this young son must have felt.
Although I cannot truly know his experience, I would say he would have wanted a friend to say, "Everything will be fine."
The young son moves on, and established patterns suddenly shift. There is a significant curve that changes everything unconsciously. The changing patterns could be good, bad, great, or excellent.
The young son embraces his new reality and moves forward. Everyone expected this young man to be like his father, to follow his path and continue the greatness his father started.
But the pain of loss is present. The young son looks back and sees no bond with his old man.
He was a rebel who flouted rules and did as he pleased. He was spanked thousands of times by his father.
At his loss, how was he supposed to react? How could he handle this shift without being destructive? His father never applauded him or showed him love. The father was a man who did his duty by providing food, shelter, and clothes to his children.
Was this enough for the young son to be brave? Could he have exceeded all expectations and triumphed?
The young son was social, made friends easily, and loved fashion. He always thought he looked good.
In the community of the blind, the one-eyed will be king. And yes, he was their king—king of his cohort.
This young man found a way to live with his pain. He went to parties, acquired cool game gadgets of his time, invited friends over, and chased girls. He loved feminine beauty, sought it, and boasted of his romantic prowess to his younger brother and cousins.
He would sometimes try to set his brothers up on dates with their crushes. He took them out and showed them the ropes of socializing.
This young son loved movies. He would wake up in the middle of the night to watch his favorite film. Something in him must have yearned for the lives he saw on screen.
Did this young man ever have an original thought? He was always in a group, always going out. The only time he would be alone was when he slept. Was sleep enough to reveal his true identity?
He was closer to the margins of society, and their patterns began to affect him. Was it already too late once he became comfortable with them?
Something about this young man made his peers listen to him. He spoke the language he learned from movies, expressed himself like his favourite characters and his peers considered him extraordinary.
He always had a different nickname at every point, constantly changing his identity. Perhaps he was seeking closure, and these names provided it.
At the outskirts of society, a young soon-to-be orphan lay at the mercy of a dice he did not know who had spun.
When I think about this young man, I see someone struggling to find his character in the story he finds himself.
Try as he might to do things his way, patterns afflict him, and he is left to make sense of passing time.
You are thinking of the years, looking at your image and wondering if this is the dream you saw.
"What happened to you?" is the constant question at the back of my mind when I see a stranger.
In that brief moment, I wonder what happened and what did not happen.
