To speak the words not spoken

The truth is, I’ve been staring at my laptop screen for a long time, not knowing what to write. Not because there isn’t any material to write of, but simply there is too much of… everything.

There are words that I need to leave out, as a blog writer. There are urges, sentiments that I do not mention, because they are impertinent to the content of my post. There are concerns that I want to communicate but do not, because I do not want people to reassure me and tell me I am not wrong.

But since it seems like I cannot proceed with anything else without spilling out these sentiments, in an ironical reversal of my declaration in the previous paragraph, I must attempt to unwind the knot in my mind and speak the words that perhaps I do not have the claim to speak.

I know more, much more, than I did two years ago. I’ve explored my city, met fascinating humans, read profound literature, and experienced many unexpected emotions. Yet it sometimes seems like this new knowledge has made a new compartment in my head, instead of fusing with my old mind.

I read news articles about Ghana immigrants losing their fingers crossing the Canadian border, a Syrian girl who got emergency treatment in a (now-bombed) hospital in Aleppo, the crude conditions of sex workers in Sri Lanka. And yet, I often sit miserably in my privileged life, brooding over a bad lunch or a dress I wish I bought.

Now, I must stop myself. Because I know how people would respond to what I just wrote. They will remark that I have grown- that at least now, I demonstrate more compassion, a willingness to fight for these injustices, an opening heart. This is the truth, but this is only one side of the truth. There are parts of me that are still frustratingly, irrationally entitled.

Here is a situation to sum it up:

If somebody asked me if they thought I was a good person or not, I would likely answer, I don’t know. Their response would be something along the lines of, of course you’re a good person; you’re just too critical of yourself. And I think that is the answer I fear the most, because it seems like my answer was just demanding for reassurance. Furthermore, the fact that my initial line of thought was that my answer was asking for reassurance suggests I’ve made this situation completely about me. I’ve claimed moral uncertainty but by doing so I’ve drawn all the attention to myself both externally and internally.

It seems the knowledge I have acquired through the years has created a division within me. I dare not call it a battle between good and bad because I think it is likely more complex that that. It is all sorts of hybrid tensions at once, and it has made me doubt my integrity and doubt my entitlement of doubting my integrity.

Ultimately, I have written through a medium that will certainly draw attention to my struggles, which I realize is what I have been arguing against. But it is liberating to release the arguments of the mind onto physical presentation; my method is flawed but I strive for it to be honest.

There are still words that I cannot get myself to say, sentiments that I’ve left in the dark, but I do not think it is my duty to feed them all in one bowl. The words I have spoken in this post already feel so jumbled. But I am hopeful in its unintelligibility they may unite.