It felt wrong. Or maybe it was me that felt wrong. I was beyond the point of being able to reliably determine true from false. The days had merged into one long string and I could no longer decipher the differences between them either. And if I could not manage to follow a 7 day repeating pattern how on Earth was I to dive in and face the plethora of lies and truth wreaking havoc within and making me question wrong, right, left, up, down, me, not me? The very idea of having to begin the unravelling was exhausting. And so for a while I rested, and I avoided, and I distracted, and I made do, and I hid, and I pretended. And I told myself this was Wrong too. That all the shoulds that were flying round my cranium like missiles ready to take me out were Right.
That I Should be better,
Should be stronger,
Should be doing more,
Should be coping,
Should be creating,
Should be helping.
And then I saw it, again.
The weaponry.
The attacking.
And at first, I wanted to make that Wrong as well but I realised then I was just adding fuel to an already raging fire.
Maybe the only way through was to stop labelling wrong as wrong and right as right and wrong as right and right as wrong.
Maybe it was all just notes in a song, held together by the silences between, and the not knowing what was coming next, and the loud parts, and the quiet parts, and the spaces, and the nuances.
Maybe I was just in the spaces.
Maybe I didn’t need to have the whole song written out for an orchestra to play. Maybe I was more of an interlude, or more of an original piece, never written down for no one ever knew what was coming next and therefore whatever I was doing was exactly right, because no manuscript could ever contain me and no scale lines could ever predict how I may Be. And I realised maybe that’s the only right way to be.
To be ever unfolding, in the Unknown, not trying, not shoulding, not having a script.
Maybe that’s where the real courage is.
To be able to be unknowing, and unseeing, and unsure. To allow the supposed wrongs to be reclaimed as opportunities for connection and space. All great success is born of failure upon failure upon failure anyway.
Maybe it’s better to be wrong.
Who’d want the confines of having to be right? Those lines are too tight and I was never born to fit.
And I guess right now it doesn’t matter what day of the week it is; why am I trying to hold onto someone else’s idea of how life should be organised anyway? Maybe now is the best time to be wrong, to not fit, to not have to present in any way other than how I am.
Everyone is improvising.
No one knows.
So how can anyone possibly be wrong because right now, there is no right….