Today, I thought about commitment. About the space between choice and decision, and what sets uncertainty apart from indecision. And which out of the two is harder. I lean towards uncertainty as the greater evil, seeing as indecision denotes options and a point of crossroads. And what if 50 different paths cross one another? Who stops and who passes? What paths do I leave to sow forests over dead leaves?
I want to show you what I mean.
Between the single-digit hours of 9 and 5, so much of everyday life is encompassed. Joys, insecurities, fears, ambitions and hopes. When you go home, you don’t always leave those things behind – especially if you’re lucky enough to be doing something that consumes you. There are so many people who go decades loving and doing the same thing, renewing the promise every Monday and almost-Friday when they don’t feel like getting out of bed.
All the while, I am wrestling my tongue to give a promise. Each word is binding, yet I myself am still unbound, uncommitted, ungiving.
It’s the patience to let go of what isn’t a necessity that I am missing. That is how I will give what I promise to put in of me.
I don’t know how I got here. Most days, I am unforgiving to myself; I am unrelenting. These days, the coolness boils me over and I seep. Over everyone. Over everything. Promises are harder to keep. Commitments are harder to be. The space between choice and decision is slim, and then slimmer. How do I stay myself all while moving forward and reinventing? I am a person and I can only be repurposed and recommitted so many times. There is a threshold and I am at her gates often these days.
Commitment is compassion, towards the self or the other. There has to be more to life than repurposing. I haven’t maxed myself out, especially not at 20. Commitment is not boring, and neither is pace. A slow simmer gives a steady boil, and sometimes, predictability isn’t the worst thing in the world. Steady I go, I tell myself. Live densely, be earnest and throw yourself into your endeavours wholly. Most importantly, do it for yourself. Make a home out of yourself.
In this, you will find private avenues of fulfilment, if only the beauty of discretion is not lost on you as it has been on me. In its truest sense, it means living a life in which my actions and character are my mouthpiece instead.
As much as I would like to, I can’t trust it – I can’t trust me.
Everyday, I am learning to honour my place. It’s the only honest way to get ahead. To build a kind character and to abandon pride and pick up integrity in its place. To cross waters instead of burning forests and to take the road less traveled by if it means a clearer conscience. The art of committing is a lost one, made up mostly by a life-long balancing act. I owe it to the people who bled for me, who taunted me and who loved. We all do. Commit to yourself if you can help it. Commit to building over burning, and crossing over reaching. I’m inclined to believe so much of you will be changed for it.