When I give out a copy of my novel now more and more I have the sense of the faults of psyche. Human psychology is an imperfect thing, and one has to be on guard against such things as pessimism, unproductive thoughts, 'dirty' discomfort, self-inflicted sufferings, harmful escape mechanisms, insecurity, overthinking, lack of focus... a whole laundry list that goes on and on. And then add on top the possibilities of being open to the misadventures of youth. All of which leaves me sighing about the reprobate youth I was unintentionally, and for all the opportunities of so many things I missed. Where was my head... Where was my head... (Again, I'm being a bit dramatic.)
How flawed we are. Shakespearean, misled by voices, thoughts, biddings... Sad it is, indeed. Woe unto the world because of offenses. And, as Lincoln pointed out, the offense came. And then what do you do? There is the great mistake, the stupidity, the moral fall. What can you do, but try your best to mend the old ways being led around rather than leading with self-control. As we know now, Lincoln contended with the melancholia of his own psyche, alongside with his wife.
What can you do but attempt somehow to improve your own psychological patterns, down at their own roots, as close as you can. You read some books your therapist recommends to you, about yoga, or about Acceptance and Commitment Theory, The Happiness Trap. You let lessons sink in. So that the next time your mind tells you an old story that takes you out of the present, you say, okay, thank you, mind, for bringing that up. You take some deep breaths, remember the nature of consciousness, present in the moment in mindful awareness.
So why celebrate human faults, except in some Chekhov-borne form that show the sad things of life, the complicated things, in short, human reality... Wouldn't it be better to write a book that shows a person successful and in control of the manipulations of the psyche...
Or is any issue so complicated that you can only let a story be, unable to untangle it.... Moving on.
At the end of the week, my chakras are coals smoldering in wet weather, and I get a chance to tend to them with my little routine at home. Calmness is found.