Assignment

MK doll

How often do we assign meanings to our feelings?

I often find myself explaining how I felt after the emotion occurred. A correct explanation would justify the associated emotion. But I get lazy and do not always explain myself, even to myself. What happens then: Are these silent emotions "justified"?

I am curious because I've always had silent emotions all my life. Specifically, had I been living an unexplained and impoverished life?

Introspection did not come naturally to me, until I had to explain myself to others. This may be what is commonly referred to as "accountability". Becoming an adult may just be increased accountability, both to others and more important to oneself.

Critical events can change people's lives. How many of such instances start from increased introspection?

Explanations enrich our emotions. More broadly, we often assign meaning and project ourselves onto other people and things. Our first tinted opinion of the world would indicate more about us than the world. But ultimately, this projection and association enriches our lives even if we get it wrong.

Which makes me think: How often do we assign meanings correctly to our emotions? How does the interaction between thoughts and emotions complicate our ability to understand how we feel? Since our thoughts can influence our emotions, thinking/explaining can easily steer us away from the first reasons behind these emotions.

This is perhaps how we indulge in our little delusions, wrapping them with false assignments to our emotionally charged lives.

Perhaps this is how we distinguish ourselves from animals. Humans and animals both have emotional capacity, but only humans actively clothe it with meaning.

How do cats apologize?

Petting

We humans say "I'm sorry" when we are apologetic. We say it sometimes even when we are not apologetic perhaps in proper manners or to achieve some ulterior motive. Hence, the words "I'm sorry" cannot be the fundamental means of apologizing.

For instance, cats don't say "I'm sorry" when they feel apologetic. So how do they apologize?

Well, if they can even feel apologetic. I suspect so.
Cats get into fights with other cats or their human companions and promptly resume affectionate behavior soon after these fights. Surely between the fight and ensuing affection a cat must have felt apologetic about the incident and decided to forgive and patch up? Or have they just forgotten about the fight?

Until I figure the answer to this question, my method of apologizing to my cat will have to suffice. I just hope she understands. Or forgets that I got mad at her.

Piercing Eyes

Piercing Eyes

Writing relates me to the world.

Telling a story forces me to seek meaning within the facts and indulge in a romance with my imagination.

I will write again, not because I have more time now but less.

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I walk by a red, squalid house every day. Its paint was peeling and reeked whenever the door creaked open.

Every week, different people would loiter about its front steps talking loudly, usually too agitated or too indifferent.

I didn't know who lived there. I didn't bother to find out. I usually averted my eyes as I scurried across this house, as if my feet had already decided a fear about this place.

Just this Friday, I walked by this red house again on my way home. The afternoon air was heavy. Too hot for a latte and too humid for a walk. Nonetheless I had them both.

I sipped my latte as I stepped into the shadow of the red house. Fool. You can't hurry when you are drinking. I reluctantly slowed my pace, while it cursed at me.

Someone started whistling from the house. The sudden music made me turn, bracing myself for an awkward greeting.

A black man, with graying hair, was standing on the lawn with a large green sofa. The sofa was gaudy but well kept. No visible stains,or tears. There were no ruffles on its skirt while it sat squarely in the lawn.

With a stiff brush, he gently and methodically combed off the dust on his sofa. He moved purposely across the sofa, moving the same brushing motion to a different patch, keenly inspecting the previous one.

It was as though he had already divided the task into hundreds of little steps which ensured a pleasing result which only he can appreciate. And pleased he was as he whistled to his flawless execution of each step.

I was confused.
This house looked in pain from the outside, yet in it lives a man who brushes his couch more carefully than I with my cat. Does the inside of this red house look better than the outside? If so, why? What is the story behind this house which haunts my commute?

My lips left my latte and my feet immediately hastened. Before my eyes could pause to collect more details, I had already left the house more curious but no less fearful than before.

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A story is never over until you stop telling it.