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It happened this morning over the simple art of making porridge.

Just like every morning, I got my neatly filled Tupperware out of the cupboard and started scooping oats into a pot, when I suddenly felt an urge to smash a banana and to mix it through the porridge. I didn’t even have the time to answer this sensation when my mind, always ready to shoot, did all the answering for me:

“What are you talking about? Banana in your porridge? Are you losing it? No, no, no, you should add some flax seeds, you know they are good for your digestion (I have a long history of difficult bowel movements in case you were wondering), and also, you can’t put bananas in the porridge and top it with more fruits. That’s way too much fruit at once. Why don’t you sweeten the oats with liquid stevia, mix in these damn flax seeds, and top it with fruits like you always do it?”

Silence—which was shortly broken by somebody screaming inside of me, “Because I don’t want to!” Silence again.

I was left slightly confused by witnessing these two voices when, at the same time, an almost guilty joy started to arise in me. Who is this second voice? She does sound familiar, but I have never heard her that loud, that clear, and that confident before. I kind of like her, and I wonder what will happen if I listen to her instead of that old, nagging b*tch from the second floor?

I started to mix the by now world-famous banana through the oats, and to take it even a notch further, I added a big spoon of coconut oil for extra creaminess. Okay, I did end up taking half of the coconut back off the spoon, but it just seemed I was taking this whole thing a bit too far. But believe it or not, it was the best porridge of all times; it was sweet, creamy, warming, nourishing, and just perfect.

It most likely wasn’t the banana nor the coconut oil, as a matter of fact. But I guess it was the fact that I was listening to what I really wanted and not to what I should have wanted.

It felt as if a thin curtain dropped to the floor, and I could see what was covered before. This should have felt like a little triumph, when, in reality, I was left with sadness.

How often am I doing this? How often do I start rationalising with my mind after having felt something entirely different? And why is what I want and what I feel so much less important than what I think I should feel? And how long was all this madness going on already?

Questions over questions started to arise, and I was left with little answers.

I finished my bowl of porridge feeling half empowered and half sad but promising myself that I was going to listen to this newly found old voice more carefully.

The b*tch from upstairs will still be nagging around, but I can always chose to ignore her, and who knows, maybe she moves out one day.  

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