I must always believe that everything that has happened is for an eventual, if not yet divined, good. And I say I “must” because it’s true: it stops me from panicking about, in retrospect of course, having made too many mistakes, lamenting what could have been and what I could have, but sadly wasn’t, done. I’ve trained myself to stop thinking in parallels when it comes to the past; too many what-ifs can quickly break my spirit. It’s expedient, I tell myself, because what has happened is the only thing that can happen, and I convince myself that there’s more to that offensive concept than quotidian inanity; no, it is defense against the discontent of the once-possible but unrealized (and so impossible), of too many divergences from my reality that, looking back and evaluating, I think might have been better. Besides, I’m limited and so is my analysis and wishes, and what I might envision as the best possible might not be, might even be worse—there’s no way to know, and no need to. Besides yet, and this is more important: there’s never absolute good, and the bad exists to fill it with comparative meaning. The only viability is to gather what inevitability, what unique, unchangeable, solitary vicissitudes I’ve been dealt—and which I dealt myself—and work with them, not wallow in dejected deprecation of their harsh, perceived inadequacy. You can’t change the past…how this seems to me now replete with wisdom, and how surprising this is to me after having thought nothing more of it than a time-worn concession to cliché and banality. And to curtail my fanciful, immature disappointment, I should realise this more often.
But I don’t.