Tuesday, March 08, 2016

The Book of Life

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.

It all matters. It's all completely futile. Writing here is futile. Not writing, when I can write and so many others can't, is hybris. 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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