Uncertainty.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been certain of what I wanted. It could’ve been anything from a bike to what I wanted to do with my life after college. I’ve always known what it was. There have been times where I had to take some time to decide, to be sure it was right for me; but I’ve always been able to come up with a single, unequivocal answer. 
I’ve never questioned myself this much before. I hate it. I hate not knowing what’s going on, not knowing what to feel. I hate not being able to distinguish what’ll make me happy from what’ll break me.
I used to be able to weigh the consequences with the benefits, to tell myself that regardless of how great something is, it’s bad for me. That I should stay away, distance myself from it. Nothing has ever been too appealing, too beguiling to delude my cognitive process. I guess that explains why I don’t see any point in drugs or alcohol. 
I used to be able to see what I wanted for myself, where I wanted to be ten, fifteen years down the road. It didn’t take much out of me either, all I needed to do was close my eyes. Now, I see near-nothingness. Everything that was once there is gone, and the road’s shorter. Probably because I’m through with the planning ahead. Now all I see is one thing in front of me. Actually.. several things. Tons upon tons of them beautifully arranged as one; a symphonic amalgamation standing right before me.
As I was writing this, my friend Daniel laughed at how no one’s going to understand what I meant above. I could’ve easily used layman’s terms to describe it, but there’s a very good reason as to why I did not; rather, why I took the sesquipedalian route. It was the closest I could get to not restricting the label I place upon something so amazing to the confines and flaws of the English language.
I started writing this early yesterday, left my computer and came back to it at night. A few key events took place between now and then that’ll set the tone of the rest of this post.
That melodious arrangement of the things I see, it’s standing within inches of me. I can see it clearly, and I want to reach out to it, to hold onto it and not let go. But part of me, the rational part of me, knows I can’t do that. It knows what would happen if I did, and knows that it’s wrong, that it’s bad for me. That it’ll corrupt everything I stand for, regardless of how incredible it would be. That part of me believes it won’t work, no matter how much effort I put in. It senses danger, a risk of failure, and knows I can’t let that happen. It thinks that no matter how beautiful it would be if somehow, someday it managed to work, that the potential risk isn’t worth it.
I’m one that usually risks a lot. The two things I’ve never put on the line for anything, or anyone for that matter are my heart and mind. I’ve never made them vulnerable, they’ve always been protected. That’s how I managed to be heartless for so long, and so well. The problem is, without realizing it, I withdrew those lines of defense, willingly. That left the two things I’ve strived so hard to protect open, exposed. That’s the reason for all of this. I’m disappointed in myself for letting it happen, and even more disappointed that I let things in. It just doesn’t feel like something I’d do. I couldn’t get rid of them because for the most part, it made me feel like I was on top of the world.
But now, I’m left feeling terrible. Part of me wants it to work, and thinks it will. That part of me will probably never be the same. I just hope that one day soon it’ll heal from all the self-inflicted damage.
Until then, my rationale is taking over. It’s taking back everything I gave away. It’s slowly reminding myself what things used to be like before I let this happen.
Ironically, it’s doing all of these things with a persevering sense of certainty.