And that's what weekends are made up of

I have often wondered why weekends are so disturbing. I think it’s all the accumulated anxiety, stress, fear and pain which melt and blend together to become creeping and slithering restlessness. I still remember the nights when I laid in my bed listening to my music and felt my heart get heavier and my breathing get difficult. I also remember that a lot of those nights were preceded by evenings of writing pages and pages of ink and tears, describing what still remain inexplicable after many many years. I am so amazed at and almost jealous of this restless heavy heart feeling. It has managed to stay pretty damn stable. It sits on my soul as a rock. I have always tried to blame it on things, people, events but have known for a while now that it’s me and not anything else. Not to say that all those things are not somehow related to or haven’t contributed to the sea of worries that I choose to drown myself into. Every time I feel it can’t get worse, it kicks me in the rear and shows me my place. I feel that there is more to happiness than what an inquisitive, restless mind can understand. Happiness is a complex emotion. It gets harder to fathom as you ask more questions and then you reach a point where you are convinced it lies beyond your comprehension and you know you can’t experience it no matter how hard you try. On the other end of the same spectrum, it appears easier to enjoy and experience if you don’t raise doubt. But then the question remains, is that feeling real? And since there is essentially no answer, you can argue either way. So do we sit and enjoy what we think is happiness and kill any feeling of emptiness and any voice of doubt or do we ask questions knowing that we may never reach an answer in our life. I know that I have real fears and concerns and I get all wrapped up in those thoughts of what, why, how and as a result, do not experience what I think is real joy. Or maybe because I don’t understand real happiness, I have no clarity and hence no answers to my real fears, concerns and worries. Chicken and egg story. Another vicious circle. But why do I care? Why should I care about all this if I can just live my life and do what I am doing. I think I care because I am not living my life and not doing what I want to. Although I know where I want to be professionally and personally in my life and I also know the associated problems, what I don’t know is the purpose of my life. I want to understand that purpose. I want to go on a personal journey. I want to experience things I never have. I want to travel. I want to do things which I am afraid of doing. I want to keep exploring my mind and the world around me and perceive it in every way I can. Maybe I have asked too many questions already and there is no turning back. And I lack courage to try to answer the existing questions because I know I they are going to breed more questions. Sometimes I wonder what am I more scared of – the questions, the answers or the journey. And I succumb to another weekend.