03: Who in the sausage party cries over spilt milk?
I should probably get to mopping this milk.
Apparently, my future is in my hands—as a few people have told me in the last few weeks. I’m still not aware when said future was handed over to me, but sometimes, I look at the ground and see said future. It is all over the place like spilt milk expanding its terrain. There is no use crying over spilt milk. How will God restore the years? How does God mop spilt milk differently from man is what I’m asking?
I woke up at 8 am today, as I have on most of these passive days of mine. I received two calls simultaneously and furthered to hear back from only one. It was my aunt. She had called to find out how I was doing only to get lost somewhere between concern and control and began to rant about my career choices, my country of study, etc. Honestly, somewhere along I zoned out, because if you’re not going to help me, if you’re unable, not unwilling, then you shouldn’t be complaining this much. It never helps. Eventually, she clocked my respectfully rude silence and asked me to take care before hanging up. It was this call that ruined my morning. At 9 am, I slipped into bed to watch two films. I was in full sulking mode.
Somewhere in between the films, I listened to Ebele’s podcast, Dearly Ebele, for a few minutes. Ebele mentioned something about strategically planning your day, especially for those with a lot of free time. It was something I needed to hear with my newly found free time which I dread, but my aunt had ruined my mood. I was in a self-sabotage mood, and maybe I’ll hear it better later.
It is almost 8 pm, at the time of completing this journal entry. I’m mentioning this because I took a short nap, and my world suddenly feels lighter. I’m listening to The Good Wine’s deluxe album, ACTS.
Sometime this afternoon, my mother called and the world regained its balance. I love my mother. I love how she’s a good listener and how wise she is, especially from a faith-inspired but not-deluded pacifist point of view. I spoke about my aunt and her awful ability to properly showcase concern, about my father, and this future we’ve all been speaking of. I started a conversation about the relational duality of my father’s faith, how sometimes it inspired me, and other times, its inability to be realistic annoyed me. Realism is not the opposite or absence of faith. Realism is not fear or doubt. Realism is realism. Realism is work. It can co-exist with faith for most of the journey until it no longer can. It leads you to the peak of the mountain from where you will take your leap of faith.
My mother said my life was in my hands, and I wanted to speak about the spilt milk. Look, the future is on the floor! but even I know, such an allegory is beyond any Gen X.
The big question is, will I still post my photo dump on my private Instagram tomorrow? This has been a tradition for two years—something I do enjoy. Yet, a part of me doesn’t want to because I don’t want my friends to think I’m doing so well or that I am so strong, and wouldn’t like to be worried about once in a blue moon (to talk about anything but my life issues o). The other part of me doesn’t want to because I don’t want to be thankful. It’s been a good month overall, but sadly, for everything but the one need I have pleaded for and fantasized about. I should probably get to mopping this milk.
Hi. My name is Victor, and this is a public journal entry. I’m just ranting. I plan to have fun with shorter and sillier pieces on substack, unlike my Medium. I last watched I Declare War in an attempt to clear out my watchlist on Letterboxd. What am I doing with my life? I truly don’t know. I’m taking a day at a time.