Ghosted Margins

When will the master of giving up give up on giving up?

Is mastery about how often you give up, or how thoroughly you do it?
Is it about ease? Consistency? Commitment to a permanent state of giving-up-ness?
Is this quantity versus quality? Or am I just hooked on repetition?

Would it be presumptuous to call oneself a master of something so hopeless?

Is it hopeless?

One could argue that, at times, it’s good to know when and how to give up.
Then again, is it?
Wouldn’t you rather learn to let go instead?

I suppose it’s up for debate.
Most of the time, I come to the same conclusion — it depends.
Let’s leave it at that.

And so here we are.

Yet another project, one I keep carrying around with me at all times.
On my tongue. On my sleeve. In my mind.
Sometimes it screams at me.
Sometimes it lies buried deep, gasping for air.

At some point in my life, I considered my own monistic system — words as the substance of everything.
If not everything, then me. Or at least all of me that matters.

I’m filled with words.
I breathe them.
They flow through my veins.
They rattle around my brain.
If I’m built from atoms, they might as well be verbal.

Not because there’s nothing else — but because, most often, through words the rest learns to speak.

And the words keep oozing from my fingers.
I keep thinking, writing, singing, talking — mostly to keep it to myself.

There’s this yearning to be heard.
Seen.
Understood.

It lives right next to the paralysing fear of being heard.
Seen.
(Mis)understood.

It’s exhausting, really.

I’ve tried before to share what I keep hidden.
I’ve quit before. More times than I care to admit.

And in the middle of this seemingly pointless dance between eager beginnings and rapid ends, I wrote a question on a scrap of paper:

When will the master of giving up give up on giving up?

I’m 30 now.

Let’s try this again.

♫ Noisettes – Don’t Give Up