Le Penseur

Unknown

I've been thinking a lot lately. Mainly about how I think too much. There is something lost when absorbed in thought. Presence, largely, but also alacrity. For as long as I can remember overthinking has always tormented me. In my youth it may have made me precocious, but now it stifles me. I sit like stone with my chin resting upon a closed hand; contemplative. I remember a small statue that fascinated me as a child, The Thinker. I didn't know then - nor do I know now - what it was about that sculpture that spoke to me. There was something simultaneously solemn and sad about the pensive piece of rock*.

Amongst our group of friends I was always the careful one. The one with foresight. That's not to say I wasn't just as reckless or that I was too afraid to take risks, I was just more conscious of the consequences. I used to chalk that up to being good at quickly weighing pros and cons - making an educated decision. I used my mind's capacity for reason to mitigate potentially painful situations. Now, I'm not so sure. Caution is bereft abandon's exuberance.

With thought, there is pain. Thinking gives rise to worry. It is both the cancer and the cure. Without it, against the recognition of our oblivion, we would be indomitable. To exist in a fragrant ignorance, intrepid flowers in bloom. Unaware and unassailable, unable to wilt. There is a beauty in nescience. To think is to step out of time - to disassociate. To divide yourself against the likeness of all things. It is often forward looking. When it isn't, it is looking back. Never present. It is longing and regret. Anticipation and guilt. Fear. There is always a degree of distrust involved, a skepticism. That things are not what they seem and intuition is not to be trusted. And also an arrogance: the idea that we hold the keys to the true nature of things.

For me, it is a creeping doubt. The idea that there is something I've missed. That I'm so hopelessly wrong I cannot know I'm mistaken. I've become fearful of my ignorance - the very thing I expected to seek refuge in. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend. Which makes me realize ignorance is not the answer. The answer is less thinking, more action. Be impulsive, be present.

Stop scrutinizing and hyper-examining.

The recurrent thought that I could've said or done something better than I had. The possible existence of a superior alternative or a more rewarding outcome inspires feelings of inadequacy. These entrenched expectations have become insidious, unrealistic. There is always a voice whispering while I speak, distracting me, trying to quiet me, forcing inward rumination. When silent it invites me to speak and then, talking over me, stabs at me with cold condescension. There exists a derisive buzzing that only I can hear. It hangs and circles around me mockingly - instigating a chase. Always able to evade my pursuit.

I think if I sit still enough I can fool it.



*A quick Google search reveals a funny coincidence. The Thinker, initially named The Poet, is part of a larger piece called The Gates of Hell.