Metacognition

/ˌmɛtəkɒɡˈnɪʃn/

And here you go again. This will be your first time putting text to paper this year. I hope it is worth it, because you might as well drop that pen at once. What in the sweet hell has gotten into you, thinking you are a writer now? That dream died a long time ago, remember? Your many procrastinations made sure of that. You stalled long enough for the birth of Artificial Intelligence, and now you may never again find joy in the honest work of your own pen.

Did I strike a nerve?

Alright then, let us examine the evidence. You are twenty-nine years old. Your apartment is embarrassing. You are single, lonely, and dead broke. No fortune. No inheritance. No savings to your name. You have become a man of no consequence, neither in the grand scheme of reality nor in the comforting illusions of fantasy. And once again you believe that pouring your heart out into the public domain will somehow become the therapy you so desperately need.

Wait a minute. You told the lady at work that you do not believe in therapy.

You lied again, did you not?

Yes, I lied. But that was not me speaking. That was my ego. That was you speaking. Truthfully, sometimes I am unsure of my own beliefs. Perhaps I will never be as bright as you. Perhaps I will never amount to anything in this world.

Nevertheless, I do know this. All my life you have given me no recourse. You have dragged me relentlessly through the mud and refused to give me even the smallest measure of credit. I was a grade F student. I failed woefully. I was restless, playful, distracted, and unconcerned with the expectations of others.

Still, I tried. Time and time again, I tried.

You reek of self-pity. Dear boy, your lack of ambition irritates me. Your complacency infuriates me. I loathe your indolence. When will you leverage your youth? When will you carpe diem? When will you make peace with our demons, seek forgiveness from love, release the past that grips your throat, reconcile with our ancestors, and find some measure of solace in this bewildering world?

Then tell me why you make me tussle for control. Are you not supposed to be my partner? The one who stands firmly in my corner?

Listen. Many years ago, I took up this mask and regalia. I perfected the masquerade dance until it became second nature, until the performance itself became indistinguishable from the man beneath it. I tore apart what remained of my fragile heart and swore never again to forgive the past. I took a quiet trip into dreamland, searching for rest, hoping never to be awakened from that comfortable illusion.

All that colourful language will not hide the truth.

You are your own worst enemy.

You wait for perfection before action. You mistake understanding for doing. You are far too impatient to experience the quiet grace that only consistency can produce. Efe, your time is running out. Greatness lingers somewhere on the horizon.

Will you get a grasp of it?