Imperceptible

One of the worst, clichéd ways to start off a piece of writing in my opinion, is to quote, from a book or a movie or a song, a line that can pass as something that encompasses what you’re writing about. I guess in some ways, I’m violating this ideology of mine by placing a line here— a simple, self-explanatory line.

No strings attached.

But in some ways, I’m still holding up to the belief I’ve mentioned above since this line isn’t even the first thing you see in this entry. This line does not even directly elucidate what this piece of writing is about. In fact the line conveys (in mercifully less words than that of which I’ve used below) the complete opposite of what the ranting you’re about to read, is about.

I can’t honestly say that there are no strings attached, no matter how much I’ve forced myself to believe otherwise— no matter how I told myself in the beginning to not let strings wind themselves around me in any form. Because even if I can’t see them, I know now that there are strings— twisting, binding— even if they are seemingly too insubstantial to hold out and too imperceptible for someone to be instantly aware of. So instead of having strings to cut there are only shadows of their outline. Such that even as my fingers continuously try to grasp at their shadows, they can’t because the strings are too indistinct. And that’s the hard part, I suppose— wanting to cut off something that’s barely there, existing but not physical enough for you to do something concrete and definite.

But the strings, in themselves, are not the problem. 

The problem stems from everything that is associated with the strings. Because something defined and real is not meant to be held by hazy strings that have no definite composition.

The real problem is when you get used to the sweet words and nicknames, to the episodes of concern and constant streams of affection, even to the petty arguments and heated discussions and consequent apologies… So much that these become embedded in your system, a habit as natural as breathing and when things go amiss and these suddenly disappear, you feel an imbalance, an uncertainty, a doubt on what’s happening and what happens next. You start to forget how it felt like before the strings started to materialize— how you made every day pass without the feeling of something missing, being aware now of just how much you have truly been missing out on. You find that gradually, the strings start to control you, instead of you acting as the puppeteer and you struggle to find yourself again— to find where you start and where the strings stop— and regain control.

Along the way you can’t help but question yourself and all the things you once believed in. Your sense of self becomes threatened and sometimes you lose yourself and come back with bits of yourself changed… sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worst.

And with all these changes, abrupt and drastic, your view of everything is altered. Some things aren’t as bad as they seem, some things aren’t as good as you once believed, and while some things cease to have meaning, some things escalate in significance.

Suddenly, you’re tempted to go back on the things you believe in. You question your ideals of right and wrong. You question the mere existence of morality— is there even such a thing as the right thing? Or is it just a meaningless label coined to give the illusion of a sense of direction?

You confuse want and need. You become painfully aware of the muddled line between innocent affection and seemingly irresistible temptation. The strength of your will is suddenly being tested, at its weakest point. And you have to go through every inch of yourself to gather even just a miniscule amount of restraint that could make all the difference in the world— could prevent you from getting so tangled in the strings that you lose yourself completely.

The idea you formed of yourself is shattering as the strings tighten their hold and you find that you’re becoming someone that you never imagined you’d become. Such that when reality finally comes for a visit, you become in awe of just how much you’ve changed— how much of yourself you’ve lost and how much of someone else you’ve gained.

And you know that even if you succeed in cutting those imperceptible, ghosts of strings, things would never go back to what they were once before. Nothing would go back to normal because normal, in itself, has lost sense—has lost meaning. Everything would remain as changed as they are. You would remain changed— with parts of yourself compressed to make room for parts of someone else that has, to you, unconsciously slipped past your defenses and structured themselves to become rooted in your system and become a fractionally significant part of your composition.

And all of these because of fragile, ill-defined, vague, pathetically and seemingly unbreakable strings.