We know what we are, but not what we may be.
— William Shakespeare
I had realized quite some time ago that the worse my mood, the smaller my world. Or perhaps the smaller the world felt, the worse my mood. I’d go with the latter if in some odd ways the two sentiments, if not reflexive, at least bleed back into one another.
The above quote is perhaps the shortest quote of Shakespeare’s that isn’t just some silly idiom still in common use today, but it says everything.
At least these days.
Most who would read the quote might find comfort in the first part. After all, knowing one’s self carries power, and power appoints itself a measure of comfort.
But for me, it’s the last part. The most comfort to be had for me is living in a large and open-ended world where all futures may not be lived, but nonetheless any future is possible. And not yet known.
There’s a joy in knowing there are as-yet-unencountered experiences, people, ideas, loves, even losses. There’s art in the possible, no matter the medium used to convey it.
But now? Now I’m stuck. One cannot live without income, cannot have income without work when the safety net removes itself from under you, cannot work when the required faculties fail. In being stuck, there is no future because there is no forward motion. In being stuck because of chronic pain, there is only pain and no possible.
The world is smaller than it’s ever been. Care to guess at my mood and well-being?
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Yeah, a wide-open future only feels exciting when you have the confidence in your ability to make the most of it, or even to survive it. I suffer from this dread, too, though I have little physical excuse. One way to counteract that yawning feeling is to shrink your current world to something that feels manageable. This can be overdone, too.
You are not committed to this future…yet. While living with a debilitating (read: incapacitating) condition systematically reduces hope with each day you endure, it’s important to remember that there is still a possibility of tomorrow being different. It’s a tiny possibility, and sometimes it seems altogether insignificant or improbable, but it is there.
In the end, it’s the only thing that drives our tomorrows. It’s important to remember, though, that—as a helicopter technically doesn’t fly in a computer, but manages to in reality—there are more things in heaven and earth—well, you know. Try not to let the world shrink such that you miss seeing what’s in motion around you…perhaps, the possibilities of what may happen; the people who want to reach out to you, or just maybe, are a little bit in love with you.
None of us knows the sum-total of our value in the world, for we don’t look through the eyes of others. I hope things go better for you, and soon, so that you can revisit peace and optimism. I know how hard this is, but this is not how everything will be—just how it is for now.
In the meantime, I hope that something definite that contributes to your physical pain gets discovered and, decidedly, fixed. As you noted, the concreteness of knowing—even if it’s not something easily repairable—makes all the difference, compared to the uncertainty.