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| Assassin's Creed: Syndicate |
I am still angry at you. I want to make you
understand. I want to shake you and yell at you. But even if I did, you
wouldn't understand. You never did understand, not even when I thought we were
close, let alone now. And why should I make you understand? It's not my
responsibility to make anyone understand.
Sometimes
I wish that the people who mistreated me would become aware of their
mistakes and sorely regret their decisions. I would love to see them
looking for me and not finding me. But this is wishful thinking.
Humans are too self-involved and egotistical to realise there are things
beyond their self-indulging mind games and petty interests. The sad
fact of this life is that we're unappreciated by others, and they never
realise their mistakes. Time passes, life moves on, and none of these
people have the guts to come and apologise, or say they understood, or
they are sorry. If they had the balls to admit such sentiments they
wouldn't have treated us so shitty in the first place. Soon the
relationship or friendship is a memory, yet another page torn off the book of Life and thrown into the fire. Humans go on, as blind and
ignorant as always, life goes on, nothing changes, nothing is ever lost.
Except maybe for a few days, weeks, years, lives, centuries, and it's
still nothing on a cosmic scale. We're ants reproducing on a speck of
dust in a vast, vast universe, and it doesn't really matter, and it
never will. Evolution matters and evolution has no winners and no famous
authors, no celebrities and no point. Its only point is continuation of life itself, orgiastic expression in myriads of
forms and countless colours, in ways I cannot begin to perceive or imagine
with my humble mind.
Everything matters. Everything is completely futile. Writing here is futile. Not writing, when I can write and so many others can't, is hubris.
The planet will continue, with or without me on it, with or without my
writings on it. It doesn't matter to anyone except me that I am awake
instead of sleeping and writing here instead of resting. It makes no
discernible difference either way.
I miss Virve.
I miss her fiercely. Almost two years since her passing. And still life
goes on regardless of how I feel, what I do or don't do. When I am not
angry, I am sad. When I am not sad, I drag my feet from one chore to the
next. And sometimes, just sometimes, I am happy without needing
anything besides the fact I am alive and breathing and healthy. I see a
blind person, or a drowned infant, and understand how many things I take
for granted.
Won't
this pain ever cease? Won't this suffering end? Does it ever end? I
guess it does end, when we cross over and there are no more words. But
until then, I am here and I am writing. For good or for ill, and until I
can no longer write.
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