The myth of certainty

The nature of change is certain, and it is the worst kind of certainty. For me, it begs a question that I wish I had an answer to: What is certainty?

I’ve always believed that certainty was a product of being a visionary. It was a sign that you could successfully connect the miscellaneous dots and conjure up something sensible. Certainty was the answer to the formula you couldn’t quite piece together yet. It took time—everything inevitably does—but you did it! You knew.

And when you know, you know—or so they say.

I thought certainty stood among other fun feelings like clarity, purpose, or a sense of meaning. I thought it was pure gold. But the world is crumbling, my friend, and your plan wasn’t as thought-out as you once believed. Good on you for believing, though. I’m sure it got you somewhere.

It got me here—expressing my real truth to those wise enough to decipher the subtext. That’s the beauty of writing. I’m a living connotation! Forget any real meaning and purpose if everything is so uncertain. Forget being myself if the ‘real me’ can blissfully exist between the lines! Call it an existential vocation for something more, or call it a breakdown. Call it whatever you want, my friend, but we both know I’m not the only one who does it.

It feels like there is nothing more certain than the shallowness of my breath when I wake up or the heaviness that drags my every step. It feels as though ‘certainty’ only exists to wear me down because everything deemed ‘certain’ is truly just heartbreaking. It feels as if every trusting bone in my body has been broken by my own doing. A breaking? An awakening.

If I am to learn anything in life, I must find it in me to accept my unmet need for certainty, and then learn to let it go. But learning and letting go have always been mutually exclusive in my experience. The process of learning from an experience means that it will live with me forever. I don't have anything against the notion, but it does get interfere with this idea of letting go. A sound voice in my head tells me to rewire that, and that sound voice might just be what I hate most about myself.

I live against the grain of what should be me, and I have fun doing it. I enjoy throwing things at the wall and seeing what sticks. I like tearing things apart and piecing together the truth of my own reality. I do it so often and so well because I know we all need the truth or some realistic version of it.

Want to know what I believe to be true? Right in my very own community, we are deluded. Despite the dark depths of this knowledge, I don’t blame anyone. I see us trying our best, but nobody sees what it does to us.

Nobody sees the line dividing what’s real from what isn’t. That line is crucial to our long-term well-being, not just how we feel right now. In isolation, where I sorely crave to be, I can’t let go of this truth.

I learn from experience, but I know from realisation. I realise that community is as vital as the air we breathe. I also know about pollution, and you’ve all traded honest authenticity for a pollutant worse than NO2—societal pressure.

Call me bleak, fine. Call me a hater. I won’t deny that I hate your values, those that go against the very nature of life. Whatever happened to openness? The concept of addressing and accepting, not judging. The reality is that we’re all one and the same, despite where our blood runs or who it runs with. Is there any room left in the realm of public perception to see ourselves for what we are? We’re nothing more than dust.

What you leave here won’t matter like you want it to. It will surely matter, but it doesn’t address the needs existing behind that desire. Why does one want to matter? To make change, or is it to be certain in our existence?

Is it a whole lot of things you don’t have control over?

Is this what they call life?

The nature of change situates itself in my peripheral vision, threatening to center when I want it least. The certainty of change leaves me frightened and alone. Running only tires out the fear for a few moments.

As blissful as they are, reality is as powerful as it is daunting and the reality is, change is certain. Connect as many dots as you want... but you can't make sense of a paradox like that.

Here I am, between letters and lines, showing you that we’re all cut from the same cloth. Deny it all you want, but if there’s anything I’m certain of, it is that.

Mr. Blue

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