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When I despair, when I resent myself for what I am, or someone else for what they are, or where I am and what I do, or where I was and what I did, for what it is or for what it was, I am duped: I am falling for a trick, a lie. 

My past, the decisions I made and the consquences of them, is a matter of indifference. It is that, or it is a matter for reflection: specifically, how can it help me enjoy today, or live better today, —there’s little difference between the two, or there should be at least—, where I am and what I’m doing right now?

Every moment, at all times, I have the capacity to be well. If not physically, morally at least; all it takes is honesty, or lucidity. What depends on me? What’s in my control? and what is not?

It’s true that, if I’m overwhelmed by stress or anxiety, it’s less likely that I’ll be capable of giving myself an honest account of what matters (what depends on me and what doesn’t, what I owe and what I don’t, etc.), of recentering, or retaking myself, of finding in myself a sort of moral balance, a sense of myself as I am (without hate or fear; simply, honestly; in good faith). Sometimes it’s just a matter of patience or endurance, of acquiescence: accepting the discomfort or pain or awkwardness of where you are and supporting it, knowing it will pass soon enough.

Nothing is ever pure in us: happiness, contentment, satisfaction; unhappiness, discontent, dissatisfaction; contradictions are always there, contradictory feelings. We are happy but a little sad too; sad but not completely sad; disappointed but a little hopeful, at least in a vague and hard-to-explain way. It’s always like that. 

We can’t control the result of our actions; all we have is our will. Why do something if it may fail? (Or be awkward, imperfect?) Because action is better than doing nothing (it certainly, if only in the end, feels better), and waiting for perfection or conditions that don’t exist and will never come is a perfect waste; we are born to act.

I write and I see that what I write is not perfect. I see that, when I think of my favorite writers and what they write, my own just doesn’t compare. But this is not good: my own has the advantage, and it’s a serious one, of being my own and no one else’s, of giving me a satisfaction (or, of course, a dissatisfaction) that no other writing can give me. It depends on me; it’s born of my unique experience, of my own mind (and body, and heart).

You see sometimes that, when you’re starting to suffer in yourself, when you realize that you’re falling in a certain direction in yourself, when your worst thoughts become loud and irresistible: sometimes you see that you have a choice: that, if you want (and you really want), you can resist them; you can conquer them, you can refuse them, you can deny them, you can say no. They may stick around and make noise, but if you decide that they are not yours, not your own, not your thoughts, but traitors, liars, cowards, cheats, it is only a matter of time and patience before they leave.

Hearing the bad thoughts blabbing on in your head and choosing to go on anyway, better than them, not them, stronger. Choosing to act on the good ones, even if they’re quiet, even if they’re apparently far, choosing to remember in act, trying to see, however imperfect, one effort after another.

Like that.

Mechanical unhappiness, disorder, instability… 

‘We are full of mechanical actions’. 

Mechanical being. The will, the body, the mind, the soul: on autopilot. 

Let the news, social media direct.

Or the people I live with every day, whose voices I hear and listen to, the conversations I hear and partake in.

The little griefs that show up every day, annoyances, pains. 

‘Dans un homme qui sait vouloir…’

What I read walking into my room, peeking at the doorway (where the quote from Alain is posted on a sticky-note). 

‘In a man (in a woman, in someone) who knows how to want…’ 

Do I know how to want?

At times. But most of the time no, I’m led by habit, mechanical manoeuvres (even the griefs, the bad thoughts). 

We fall into a routine of something, that begins to play out to more or less the same tune, over and over and over.

Know how to want?

That is to know how to change; to be willing to do what you (or the mechanical part of you that clings to the safe and easy, the path of least resistance) — to be willing to do what you do not want to do (the higher part of you wants to, that part of you that knows that what’s difficult and painful is necesarry to growth).

Qui donc dira à l’homme :

« Tu es toi-même.

À ta manière donc, 

et selon ton essence,

tu dois comprendre,

aimer,

vouloir ;

enfin,

découvrir en toi

ta propre ressemblance ». [—Alain]

*

[Who then will say to you:

“You are yourself. 

In your way then,

and according to your essence, 

you must understand

and love

and want;

put concisely,

discover in yourself

your own resemblance.]

Trust the feeling, the instinct, 

what you feel but can’t explain,

what you know but can’t find the words for, 

even if it frightens you,

even if it confuses you, 

even if it seems too much, too big, too great for you,

too big for your head or your heart, 

to ask too much, —

trust it anyway

and to the end,

as you can,

and 

like that, 

you know the way. 

L’homme se forme 

par la peine ;

ses vrais plaisirs,

il doit les gagner, 

il doit les mériter.

Il doit donner

avant de recevoir.

C’est la loi. 

*

[We are formed

by the pains we take; 

our real pleasures,

we have to win,

we have to merit.

You have to give

before you receive.

It’s the law.]

*

C’est en adorant

que l’on comprend.

*

[It’s in adoration

that we understand.]

*

Notre pensée

n’est pas ainsi faite

qu’elle puisse marcher la première ; 

qui pense ses actions

n’agit jamais. 

*

[Our thinking

doesn’t work in such a way

that it can walk first;

one who thinks their actions

never acts.]

*

L’homme n’est heureux

que de vouloir

et d’inventer.

*

[We aren’t happy

but in wanting

and inventing.]

*

Certes

on n’est pas 

ce qu’on veut

mais on n’est

quoi que ce soit

que si d’abord

on veut. 

*

[Certainly 

we aren’t 

what we want to be

but we aren’t

anything at all

unless in the first place

we want to be something.]

*

Voir suppose regarder,

et regarder

c’est douter.

*

[Seeing implies looking,

and to look

is to doubt.]

*

Juger, décider, agir,

voilà 

les fonctions de l’âme.

*

[To judge, to decide, and to act,

these are the functions of the soul.]

*

Le fait n’est

ni vrai

ni juste

parce qu’il n’est jamais 

ni faux

ni injuste ;

c’est l’homme pensant

qui est vrai

et juste.

*

[The fact is neither

true

nor just

because it is never

false

or unjust;

it is the thinking person

who is true

and just.]

We are drowning in clichés, 

in general ideas 

impossible to prove or disprove,

in lazy thoughts

and small talk,

gossip,

taken seriously, 

bored

and hungry minds

fed on, 

that only know

hot air,

casually cruel

and careless,

the kind of talk

that kills,

spoils,

wastes the heart,

the capacity to see

the suffering we all bear

and naturally,

every one of us,

and every hour,

every day,

‘blind men

battering blind men’,

sufferers who,

suffering,

make suffer,

embarrassed,

ashamed,

but proud,

and scared,

insecure if anything,

and desperate. 

It takes years to say what you want to say. You feel it very often, but you just can’t say it. Sit down to write and it doesn’t show up. Talk to whoever and it just won’t come out, it evades and evades you. A part of finding it though is creating the conditions for its release: writing every day, developing habits, cultivating the feeling around this knot, or pulse, or desire. 

The mind left to itself is perverse, depraved. Mean, out of touch; if anyhing antagonistic, ready to tear down who- and whatever, on account of our fears and doubts and anxieties. The idle and desperate mind would trip up and kick an old woman, our grandma, for a moment’s awkwardness or annoyance. But we forget what it’s up to, and we fall for the trick, dupes of the contortions and concoctions of our mind. It smirks and it sneers; — sometimes this jackassery even reaches our face, and it’s ugly. Ugly because mean and unnecessary, cruel.

The mind is so powerful, and sometimes I think that most of us (and I include myself of course) just can’t match it, in force or strength, and that a lot of our problems and personal riddles or dilemmas are products of the mind in us that just needs more exercise than it gets, that this excess energy becomes neurosis, and we, as Emerson says, ‘miscreate our own evils’. 

Alienation plays a part too, screen time and isolation, of course of course. The news, social media, these things distort and confuse our sense of self and others, the world around us. 

Most of us, I’m willing to bet — (in fact, I’m sure) —, just want to get along with the people we see every day, meet at restaurants or coffee shops, sit next to or pass at work. We’d smile and say hello, know each other’s names. Throwing down our head, pretending that the other doesn’t exist, this embarrassment about existing, depresses and annoys, is humiliating and no good for self-esteem or respect.

But it’s a struggle, and most of the time it’s only in ourselves, a battle between our heart and our head, our sense of what’s good and our fear to do it, to listen to our better thoughts or instincts and follow through, to dare. 

There is pain. There is always pain. It is never perfect, the days, the efforts, the words, the actions. You fail. You win, but you fail just after that. Whatever it is, it’s a struggle. And you must smile. You must know yourself a man, imperfect, awkward, capable of more, of better, which you’ll see to in good time.

You must refuse, you must set yourself up against sadness, despair: resist it head on. Look it in the eyes and say no; without hate or fear, without hard feelings, deny it, and move on. 

It isn’t just. It is evasion. It flatters us, but not the part of us we want or admire. It flatters the mind, frustrated, tired, not the courageous heart. The heart (hope, faith) can only detest it. Cheerfulness is yours if you want it.

On n’aime pas les clichés. On aime les individus. 

On n’aime pas ce qui est prédictible. On aime les singularités. 

Ce qui est prédictible ne nous dit rien. C’est indifférent. 

On aime ce qui est naturel. On aime ce qui est profond. 

Me réduire, c’est m’insulter. 

Me réduire à mon passé, à mon métier, à ma famille, c’est m’insulter. 

On n’est pas son passé, ni son métier, ni sa famille. 

On n’est pas ses opinions, ce qu’on aime, ce qu’on n’aime pas.

On est sa façon d’être.

On est sa façon d’avoir ses propres opinions, sa façon d’aimer ce qu’on aime et de ne pas aimer ce qu’on n’aime pas. 

Il y a des personnes qui pensent comme je pense, qui ont les mêmes opinions, que je n’aime pas. 

Il y a des personnes qui ne pensent pas du tout comme moi, qui n’ont pas les mêmes opinions, que j’adore. 

On aime ce qui ne peut pas se dire, ce qui est derrière la personne, les mots. 

On est sa manière de vivre, sa manière de dire ce qu’on dit.

(On n’est pas ce qu’on fait, on n’est pas ce qu’on dit.)

On est sa manière de se taire, sa manière de regarder les autres dans les yeux (ce qui est derrière les yeux).

On est sa manière de souffrir, on est sa manière d’espérer.

On est sa manière de rater, sa manière d’essayer, de recommencer.

(On n’est pas ce qu’on rate, on n’est pas ce qu’on essaie.)

On est le comment.

Ou pour mieux dire, c’est son comment, celui de l’individu, qui se manifeste, mais qui ne peut pas se dire (ou, au moins, qui ne se dit que rarement et avec beaucoup de difficulté, surtout en poésie): cela se sent, et chaque individu a son essence (les groupes n’ont pas, les catégories sociales n’ont pas). 

You have to find wisdom where you are. 

To read moving quotes from authors and think of the circumstances in which these authors wrote and lived and, realizing how different your own are, conclude that they don’t apply to you, that you are somehow beneath these things, is misguided. 

You have to find wisdom where you are, 

you have to be wise in your own way, 

you have to think and judge and decide

right there where you are, 

not knowing what will come

but hoping for the best,

trusting the instinct, the feeling,

and going on. 

To know too

that it’s process,

that what you do and say

is imperfect and naturally so, 

humanly so,

that what’s more important

is our tendency,

the direction we tend to, 

the habits we aim and strive for,

how we risk and dare,

and not the result, 

because naturally small, 

single steps on the way, 

disappointing if stuck at, 

looked at with the hope of expectation, 

a great answer or big reveal, 

that we in our choices every day

create our life 

and determine our fate,

and the smallest and most private of these

carry the most weight,

belong to us most,

because unseen

and closest to the heart,

because small,

because even to us not clear,

a hint, a nudge, a brief light

that,

remembered and served,

cultivated

and responded to,

tend to grow

and, through the hours

and through the years,

through the silent work and pain

alone on the way, 

tend to become much more our own, 

a part felt and seen and

instinctively understood,

the soul we found 

and saved.