They say that God won't give you more than you can handle. There's a prayer for it, a doa, from the Qur'an that we had to learn last year. I wonder if anyone still remembers it because I've forgotten. Two years ago, I thought it was too much. I thought, there was no way I'm going to make it out of the year with my sanity intact, because I've ruined things for myself. And slowly, maybe even too painfully slowly, things mended themselves. People came together, events orchestrated panned out beautifully, and I, eye of the storm, made it out okay. Thought that was the end of that, when she left, because it all started with her, really, but it didn't end. People kept on talking about her, and the wheels kept on turning, and the cycle of life never quite got back round to that part that I liked. Not yet, anyways. And then I learned, things that I should have learned from the very beginning.
It's not right. Even if I sought out help, it still doesn't make it right. I had an opinion, a long time ago, that the reason baby dumping was becoming so widespread was because of the undeniable split between traditional culture and modern-day culture. The generation gap. That if modern-day sexually active teens could reconcile their differences with their traditionalist parents, we wouldn't be having this problem. And here it exists again. "I'm just not sure anymore because what one person calls preservation, another calls it lame. What one person calls progress, another person calls treason."
If the crack wasn't so thick, if the cavern wasn't so deep, would we able to wade through the differences and settle it? I remember reading about it, and I remember thinking that "no, it's wrong" isn't always a viable answer to everything. You can tell a child that something's wrong and the child might ask why, and you can give all the answers you want, it still doesn't change the fact that you're looking at things from a different perspective. So if this happens to you, then what would you do? Would you like it if I stared you down? Would you like if I judged? Would you like to be judged?
Of course I care about torture. Of course I care about penance. Because I'm only human. And there's only so much I can take. Last year, after everything, I thought that there was no way I was going to make it out with my sanity intact. I've talked it out with so many people that it just becomes the blood that's in my mouth, the saliva behind my teeth. Because I know that if we were locked in a box and sheltered on a shelf, none of this would even be an idea. But we weren't. Free to do whatever we, I think is right, I've come to this.
How do you warp a mind? It's slow progress, slow poison. I can look at all these people and say, it's all right, it's going to be all right, because I expect it of them. I expect them to do what they've been comfortable doing all their lives and maybe, if I have my own kids one day, it'll be like that. Because if I raised them, then I'll come to expect certain things from them. And just like that, this is similar. Growing up with these people around me, it's like looking at them from the corner of my eye. Not quite there. Shadows, maybe, but opaque on a certain level only. I can stand with them, stand up for them, because when the light hits, it's like every bit that makes them a person disintegrates and flies away. It's like they're not there.
And with me, it's personal. It's my own business. It's my life, after all, and I make the calls and call the shots. If I have problem with the way I think or with the way I handle things, I'll deal with it myself. It's none of anyone else's business. "'Cause at the end of the day, we're all alone with God. No one's gonna be there and vouch for us." My problems, not yours.
And honestly I feel like such a hypocrite because after everything that's happened with me, with, well, everything, I couldn't handle it. Or at least for the moment I don't think I could. I don't think I can live like this. Because it's not a corner-of-the-eye thing, it's straight on full frontal and unexpected. I can live with everyone else and I can live with myself. I don't think I can live with this. How bad do you think I feel whenever I whisper to myself, whenever I wish not to have known? Really bad. I feel like Santana's grandmother.
Maybe it's just because I'm shouldering the burden alone. The rest, the others, people know. I tell, too. I mean, I don't go shouting it from the rooftops but I tell. And maybe that's the worse part, you know, the fact that there's two of me, one who hides and one who never lies. And the one that knows, the one that knows everything is the former.
Through them, not in spite of them.