ouijaprofile (ouijaprofile) wrote,
ouijaprofile
ouijaprofile

Another Day in the Books

When a person doesn't believe in fate or destiny, the question "why am I here?" becomes suddenly and uncomfortably complicated. When people die young, die senselessly, die without ever living, the idea that everything happens for a reason, or that we exist for a reason, loses so much of its ground. A person cannot possibly be born and die only to serve as a test to you; you and I are simply not that important. The world continues to move along without them, as it will continue to move along without you or me. It almost seems as if nihilism is the only adequate response to the nature of reality, the "unberable lightness of being." People die, as adults, as children, as parents, brothers, sisters and friends, and there is simply nothing you can do to stop it.

But if there is nothing you can do to stop death, couldn't you also say there's nothing you can do to stop life? It is knowing that which provides me with the sense of comfort that a "meaning" is supposed to. Meanings are meaningless; I have lived twenty-one years without one, and I may live twenty-one more before I find anything that applies. Knowing simply that life will keep going, that is what I think the origin of hope is.

We all face rejection, every one of us, in just about every facet of our lives. The ability to deal with rejection is the same - you don't believe in the fated encounter, you believe that you can win. You know that you can win, you have sampled the taste of victory, and that is so much better than simply believing it, holding yourself up with some fallacy. An entire life spent failing, spent losing, spent running has never equipped me to handle rejection well. All I believe is what I know is going to happen, and the confidence in being accepted is just a veneer, all this broken glass glued back together and polished.

All that polish can't hide cracks, and I can see through me, knowing when they're showing. Sometimes the glass is invisble, sometimes murky, and sometimes even tinted by hues and colours that well up inside me. Ever so rarely, it's reflective, showing the person that I want to be, that I know I'm supposed to be. I am the reflection of him, the one who's grown up, the one who's achieved the poise and the practice and the experience, surrounded by the people he chose to include. I am the reflection because although I can imagine him as me, I can't imagine how I can reach him. The glass creaks as I fight to move it, rocking backwards and forwards, straining, reaching - awkward and haphazard. And it is always when I can start to feel it warming up, as if my flesh is finally about to break out from the mirror... something happens. And I am shattered. And I return to Stage 1:1 to glue everything back together, lost count of the times.

I want to grow up. I'm tired of these teenaged desires. I'm tired of having to relive them. Just once, I want to know what it's like to be that man, the one who got what he wanted.

It's nobody's fault that glass is brittle, but it's light. So unbearably light. And in all this lightness life just keeps on going. I will keep on going. Without the sense of touch or taste, I will keep on going.

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