Shortly upon waking each day, the mechanisms which guide my thoughts // switches modulating // lights blinking // circuits connecting // begin to whir to life. I grasp for my phone and my dark room instantly becomes bathed in the tiny glow of a Wordle puzzle inches from my face. Five letters, six guesses and a few precious minutes before the more consequential puzzles of the day begin.
I get in the shower and let the steamy torrent jostle loose stagnant dream bits that imperceptibly tether me to sleep. As my brain enters the final stage of its boot-up process, that’s when I notice the distant rumbling. I feel notions bubbling up from the edges of my mind. Although they never reach a simmer, I am dimly aware of their growing reproach.
Of uncertain origin, these unwelcome visitors attempt to bed down and find purchase in my subconscious. I do not seek their counsel, nor do I bargain with them, however they insist on a place setting. Less a voting body, more uninvited guests who tut their tongues to my inner monologue.
These thoughts are my worst impulses. They are negativity writ large. They isolate my mind and foment unease. Calling them demons would be a quaint personification that imbues them with too much gravitas. They are errant misfires, leaden balloons, poorly rendered characters. To tamp them down requires vigilance and resolve. Whenever I feel twinges of recrimination, blame or provocation then I know they are near. I am a prisoner, in some respects, because I cannot rid myself of them. They are my shadow, and I, their reluctant host.
The particularly vexing aspect of these unwelcome visitors is that they are not always without merit. Some thoughts arrive bearing legitimate grievances, persuasive arguments, and a well-documented history of supporting evidence. While others are merely opportunists, seizing upon some passing slight and exaggerating it for effect.
Righteous indignation is a powerful intoxicant. It convinces the mind of a simple binary, neatly arranging the world into those who have wronged us and those who have not. My rational brain realizes the futility of keeping such a ledger, however my pettiest thoughts occasionally compel me to check the balance.
There is little satisfaction to be found in taking The High Road. It is a thankless endeavor and conspicuously devoid of the gratifying little victories that accompany a well-timed rebuke. There are no medals awarded for the cutting remarks left unsaid, no witnesses to the indignities quietly endured. And yet, the alternative offers its own peculiar brand of misery. Indulging resentment can feel momentarily restorative. The mind becomes a courtroom in perpetual session, endlessly revisiting testimony and rendering verdicts. I am simultaneously the plaintiff, prosecutor, and judge, presiding over a trial that never adjourns.
Perhaps taking The High Road is less about extending grace to those who have wronged us than about extending a measure of it to ourselves. Recognizing the humanity in others needn’t require absolving them of their shortcomings, just as acknowledging my own anger needn’t oblige me to act upon it. People are complicated, their virtues and failings seldom distributed in tidy proportions. I can recognize the good in someone without denying the hurt they’ve caused. I can choose not to retaliate without conceding that I was wronged.
Tomorrow morning, I suspect those familiar visitors will return, bearing a fresh bushel of injustices. I may even indulge them for a moment, if only to admire their assortment of outrage. But I am learning that acknowledging their presence does not require offering them a seat at the table.
The High Road may be poorly marked and inadequately maintained, but it remains solid ground. The alternative is a labyrinthine corridor filled with trolls, instigators, and the occasional interloper, ironically enough. I suspect I’ll find myself wandering back down there from time to time. Old habits, after all, are notoriously poor navigators but with age, and presumably wisdom, I’m beginning to recognize the exits.
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