Objectivity

That day he ran. Usually, he liked to walk, on Her suggestion that day, he ran. He shrugged his hunched frame, opened up his shoulder blades, drew up his stocky frame to full height and ran. Uninhibited and carefree. He splashed through the waves and the surf, stopping only at the far end of the beach. Panting, he bent forwards and turned his head backwards to look for Her. She soon caught up with him. A quaint, serene and beautiful smile played on her lips. ‘That was fun’ ‘Sure was’. They turned and started ambling back to their group, which looked like a jagged blotch of colour on the sparkling golden sands, like a stain on a rug. They are strange, these sort of friends. Prized possessions.

This memory is bottled up in head, safe and tight. He struggles trying to get the facts straight. Not romanticizing good memories and demonizing bad ones is hard. He closes his eyes….

Was the sand as golden as he sees it in the mental projection of that beach? Was she really smiling when he turned back to look at her? Or just panting? Was the sun really shining that prettily? It was overcast that day, wasn’t it? Even more scarily, did he run on the same beach as he now projects in his memory? Or was it on the other beach, a few weeks later, the much less beautiful, and lot more crowded beach?...

He exhales deeply and violently. The stench of stagnant rainwater and decaying rubbish pile are overbearing. ‘Lets get it over with’. He hurries into the gate keeping his eyes low, wanting to avoid anyone who knew him even slightly. He slinks past the buildings, offices and warehouses. The clanging and chattering of machines seems obtrusively loud and jarring. Every shadow appears menacing. Suppressing a shudder, he walks into the office, signs the forms, collects his documents and rushes out. He virtually jogs to the main gate, exits and doesn’t even bother to make sure that the gate closes behind him. He just wants to get away from this ruthless monstrosity....

This memory is bottled up in head, safe and tight. He struggles trying to get the facts straight. Not romanticizing good memories and demonizing bad ones is hard. He closes his eyes….

Was it really THAT smelly near the entrance? Or was it just a small puddle due to recent rain? Were the lawns not lush green and pretty? Were the people there not really kind and supportive to him, despite their nonchalance about his work? Hadn’t this clanging and chattering sounded endearing to him initially? Was the aversion to this place not partially due to the fact the botched up some things? Did the people there not help him sort his mistakes out?

“Objectivity leads to disenchantment. It clears the mist of emotions, enhances rationality and reduces delusions. Being deluded about anything never helps. The first step in resolving a problem is accepting the reality”

How empty these words sound even to him. He snorts with derision, still the words fascinate him. Preaching stuff he rarely if ever follows. If only his actions mapped his words, if only the inherent hypocrisy of his ‘theories’ would be resolved. If he could just be truthful to himself foremost, before even bothering about the world around him. 

Objectivity is a big word to throw around.