We often tend to forget about ourselves, don’t we?
We forget that we are humans. We forget that we have a tendency to bleed easily. We forget that we have a high thirst for certain things that may not be so good for us. We forget that we are burnt much too quickly, that we die out as subtly and as instantly as matches. We forget that we can be broken much more easily than our bones can be. We forget that we are all searching for one another, and in this, we also forget that we need to search for our own selves first. We forget that everything ends, that we will undeniably, perpetually, end, soon enough. We forget about humanity, and what exactly that means. We forget to be people.
We forget to live.
And that is perfectly okay, I suppose, in a way. It is perfectly understandable, to feel so disconnected from ourselves that we have to find ourselves in other people, who may not want to be found. It is quite logical, really, to feel the weight of everything collapsing unto our souls at once. It is okay to feel nothing at all, to feel discordant and unreasonably empty, to feel like a heap of burnt cards that was once so neatly stacked into a meticulous house. It is what we do.
We may be logical, but our whole existence is rather illogical, really. We live and then we die. We exist and then we cease to exist. That is it, that is all, that is enough. That has to be enough. There is nothing more, nothing less. Of course, you may choose to disagree, depending on what your beliefs have taught you. There is no agreement, though, that you can make with anyone to bring you longer time. To give you something more, something steadier, something more tangible, to hold onto. There is no deal. There is no hope for anything else.
And so, many times I find myself wondering, why do we continually choose to exist, to breathe, to be in a reality that will never, ever, be more than what it currently, so deeply, is? Why do we find ourselves hoping, constantly, consistently, against what we all know to be inarguably inevitable? What do we see to feel so nonsensically, ridiculously, hopeful, and yet to be wholly aware of our own self-transience? Why do we continue to attempt to thrive here?
There is no other way, of course, and we somehow have recognized that. That is the impossible existence we have. We are creatures who know of our ultimate endings and yet we also know to live in spite of these. There may be light and there may be unspeakable darkness and there may be unadorned devils and there may be hidden ones. But there will never, ever, be any other way to end but the one way we already do. There is nothing else to end in. And that is the strange miracle of us. At least, that is what I’d like to think.
I am both fascinated and repelled by our inane existence. There is no reason for us to continue, and yet, we do. There is no logic behind our heartbeat, and yet, they beat on. Our breathing will stop, but we do not want it to. There are the times in this world when we want absolutely nothing more than to surrender to our existence, to feel the holy, unjustifiable lives we are living. And it is understandable. God, it is more than understandable, to want nothing more than to leave it, to allow ourselves fade away into the delicate contrails of the sky, to burn ourselves until our candlelit selves become waxen remainders of who we used to be. It is justifiable, that desire. It is.
And of course, we do not know why we are living. We do not know why we carry on, but we do know the one, irrational thought behind it: hope. We continue, always, forever, to hope, even in the midst of total and chaotic questioning. We know, inside of ourselves, that our questions are never to be answered. That we are never to be answered. We, ourselves, are the question marks.
And so, is there any reason to try to find ourselves in this world? Is there any blatant reason to why we should try? Of course not. There is none, and there never will be. But I like to think that we find that reason in ourselves. That we find something inside of us that carries us into our lives. Something unspoken, something irrational, perhaps, but something clear. Something real.
There is no other option to accept the existence we thrive in. There is no second choice. And there are ways out, and those ways are understandable and acceptable, but they are not answers.
There are no answers, and there never will be.
And if you find an answer, it is the truth.
The only truth we can ever hope to find.