As a young adult, I lived a life of inner dialogues, films in my mind, desperate sentimental and romantic yearnings, and diffused illusions. Reading old diary entries is a remarkable, often embarrassing, humbling experience. In all the ups and downs of those years, what most often is missing from my agonising reflections is the thought “Am I wrong?”, or “Could I do this differently?” I counted on the sympathies of my friends, the wise words of poets (whose remorseful meanderings were synchronous with my disillusions), to encourage me to continue conducting my (messy) life in the manner I was accustomed to.
Life, growing up, growing old(er) is one of the most consistently ruthless, brutally honest, unsparingly divine teachers we have. Thus, the longer I live, the greater the opportunity to experience a startling shift in perspective when I (finally) change my mind; the joy of turning off the film currently playing in my mind; or the sense of release when I (at long last) discontinue conversing with the annoying person of my inner dialog. What all these acts do is allow me to experience the immediacy of spontaneity.
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