Love: The Irony

I am not writing from the perspective of a lovelorn teenage lass. Nor am i referring to romantic love...   not necessarily. Love. The word itself is potent, undeniably powerful for even the staunch advocates against its power are cognizant of the things it has done to us, the things it could potentially do to us.

I initially attempted bicycle riding when i was about six and being a child it was unsurprising that my initial reaction upon falling was to cry. I distinctly recall, however, that each time i fell my dad would stretch out his hand to pull me up and my mom would pull me into an assuaging hug, with whispers of "Don't cry, mommy loves, mommy loves." And there i would gather all the courage i could possibly have in my six year old self, take my dad's hand, and stand up again.

As the years transpire however, these words have faded into ambiguous obscurity, if not having vanished into complete oblivion. I have since learnt and become adept at riding the bicycle, and in copious other aspects i have matured. I have grown up, and must now be autarchical, self-sufficient... or that is what the vast majority appears to think of me. That is what society incites me to think, even of myself.

As we grow up, falling becomes an increasingly hackneyed occurrence and we are expected to pick ourselves up, without external aid. Not only are we scheduled to pick ourselves up, we are fostered and even championed to do so in the "ideal" way, of which definition portends doing so without any display of emotion, blatant or inconspicuous. We don't need love, for we are no longer little children incapable of managing our emotions. And it seems to me that love has become a labeled impediment, far more a vice than virtue.

I don't understand.

How am i to comprehend? Why is it that as each routinely 365 day passes that we are expected to be independent...independent of love even? Do we not remain inherently human...do not all humans need love for our very existences? If anything, we should need love more than ever before.

Society elevates independence, claiming emotional freedom immaculate, absolute. With flatulent confidence we assert that we do not need emotional encumbrance yet on social networking platforms we witness amongst ourselves the overt emptiness extant in our fallen selves, the need for company and the need for love, however meager the amount. I wonder why we are not more expressive...do we not realize the power the three words possess?

We are acutely perceptive that the eight letters that "i love you" constitutes could very well lift up a person's day, week, even month. Yet in all our complacency we do not actually do anything, witnessing the emptiness in people around us, in our very reflections. We may even be so bold to accredit our behavior to the fact that love does not in fact exist but in that exists the greatest irony of all... the fact that we have created an entire generation of emotional cripples --human shells devoid of emotion, void of the very core that comprises humanity.

Sometimes, i wonder if we have not all lost our minds.

The Reason.

Forget the self-conscious, writerly prose today... far too exhausted to be giving much detail to writing. I'm tired. Of working assiduously and being utterly incapable of witnessing any visible results. Sometimes i wonder what i'm working so hard for anyway. For a place in university? For a better job? A luxurious life? And yet what is luxury, when living in all the earth's splendor could very well  mean suffering in hell for eternity after this transcient life?

The subject seems so ominous even to mention, but life scares the hell out of me. Crudely put, i seem to be placed in this world to face the remonstrances it presents...to live my life in an idealistic manner. If  i "succeed", i go to heaven at the closure of my earthly life. And if i fail, i go to hell. I think we often perceive hell too lightly, probably because the word is used so casually in modern context of the language.

"Go to hell", a phrase we use with such nonchalance, ironically even with some humor. Even as i notice my earlier unintended usage of the word "life scares the hell out of me", i pause and wonder...do we know what hell means? Some sort of fiery dungeon down in the depths of the earth? Understatement of the century. No... millennium. Imagine you're in a pit of fire at the highest level of heat possible, with a hot, searing pain that scorches your entire body...except you never get burnt. The pain never ends. The torridity is continuous, perpetual. Suddenly it's not funny anymore, and what bites at me further is the fact that this is only a fraction of my limited ability to comprehend. Maybe it's ten times worse than what i just described. Maybe a hundred, a thousand. Eternal damnation.

It's almost as if life is a dark, sinister game... one that you can't give up on, because the risk of ending it is far too great. Obviously then, i would well wonder on the contrary how a glorious place i would find myself if i were to succeed in this 'game'. I can't quite sum it up, though i suppose in layman terms that it would be incredibly spectacular. But like they say, nothing ever comes without a price, especially something as phenomenal as this. And so i wonder what that price is, and how much it would cost me. A lifetime of good deeds on earth? Being as religious as humanly possible? Again, i don't have a rebuttal, but i'd say it would cost me pretty much my life. So far, i suppose we have 

Cost of process of winning = hard life for time span on earth approximately 70-80years

Cost of failing = hard life for all eternity 

You do the math.

It's kind of weird that most of the time we don't question the reason for life itself. I mean, if i were to ask you(whoever you may be)to meet me tomorrow at noon outside a certain restaurant, you would want to know why. You would inquire of the reason for that mere two or three hours of your life, because your life is important...because time is precious. Is it not then rather paradoxical, even a little humorous that we are perfectly capable living day to day, running around amid our hectic schedules our entire lives, never questioning where all that eventually leads toward?

I'm not saying i have all the answers, because i don't. What i do have, however, are a million questions, and it appears queer that people usually don't think about things like that. Perhaps all that we recognize as success, as achievement, as subjects to be glorified, are in actual fact useless and of no essence whatsoever. What if i don't ask these questions now, only to ask them a few decades later? What if by the time i realize, the end of my life is drawing dangerously near and all i have accomplished is naught?  It would be too late for regrets. And that is what incites me to question all i'm doing now, to search for the reason, the reason for life itself. To reevaluate all i'm doing, because the thought scares me. More than scares me.

It really haunts me.

Identity.

I stared. 

She stared back at me, ever so blankly. Dark hair cascaded softly down her translucent skin. Her eyes, large and unblinking, were strangely captivating. A perfect picture of composure and poise... yet she was expressionless, soulless and empty. I had known her since the day i was born, but as my eyes fixated on her it seemed as if i was beholding her for the first time. There was no familiarity, only uneasiness and inquietude. She was extrinsic.

Yet there was something exotic, a pulchritude i could not quite describe, that was peculiarly fascinating. An arcane, recondite aura about her, i was helplessly but entirely drawn. I could not look away. Her eyes locked on mine, and as i peered into them i thought i saw a fleeting glimpse of... was it urgency?

She wanted to show me something. Something pressing. 

I could see the conflict in her eyes. There was something she wanted to tell me, yet for a reason unbeknownst she could not. I wanted to touch her, to assuage and mollify, to let her know that she could confide in me. I would shield her esoteric secret."It's okay," i breathed, but my voice was a whisper, barely audible. She did not appear to have heard for her gaze intensified, her frail frame shaking vehemently as she fought the impalpable battle within. 

Without warning, an excruciating scream of sheer agony filled the still, silent air. 

A moment registered before i was cognizant of its source. Her eyes were now dark, her face thoroughly contorted, stripped of its former placidity in all entirety. In her eyes i now saw animosity and irascibility, resentment and bitterness. Yet fresh, moist tears streamed down her cheeks incessantly and i saw a beauty in this vulnerability. The fragility i witnessed was beautifully raw, naked emotion presented in its truest form. 

And yet i could not comprehend. What had she wanted to show me? Almost as soon as i posed the query, understanding dawned. An elucidation of raw honesty. She had revealed to me what no other human had ever divulged...a glimpse of her naked soul, bereft of pretense.

Her lips quivered as the moan died, and she bit her lip. A single drop of crimson trickled down.

The air was silent once again. I peered into her eyes, but they were now void of emotion, staring blankly back at me. She was still, placid... a ravishing, resplendent picture, just as before. Had i imagined it all? 

Disconcerted, i took a tentative step back. I was afraid. 

Afraid of my own reflection.

Choices.

I have a secret. A weakness. 

Placed in the presence of such, any former resolve would fade into unmitigated oblivion as i take a bite into the saccharine pastry, impeccable rendition of divine goodness. A taste of heaven. 

Who could resist? I didn't quite have a choice.

Or did i?

I distinctly recall a particular morning years ago when i was a young child. My mom had toast, omelette, bacon, and an extensive spread of  ambrosial delights laid at the breakfast table. But five year old me only saw the absence of my favorite cereal and strawberry yogurt as i surveyed the counter. Eyes widened in a mixture of bewilderment and confusion i had inquired of my mom with a questioning look "Mommy, why isn't there anything to eat?"

A decade has transpired, and i realize perhaps a little startlingly, that i remain very much the same little girl. I see what i wish to see, and that is sometimes that is all i allow myself to discern. Such is the case as i encounter the various quandaries life deals, artlessly making decisions and conveniently shirking myself of any responsibility or obligation whatsoever with a single dismissal.  "I didn't have a choice."

Yet searching deep within my conscience i know i did. The liberty to choose remained mine. Ever so often, consciously making the less preferred decision in favor of personal alleviation and amenity, i imagine i felt a little guilty. Thus i adopted ignorance, living in self denial, a dwelling of delusion. Pretending i was forced to choose something when i wanted it. Perhaps it was austere knowledge that i fancied the 'bad' choice that left me a little perturbed. The actuality and egregious degree of my own self-indulgence.

Was I a bad person? 

And yet if what if the 'right' choice was one delivered at my own expense? The desideratum to foster and shield(if need be) oneself at all expenses was almost congenital, an inborn instinct. Did i still have a choice, then?

Yes.

There is, naturally, a contiguous correlation between the choice you make and it's eventual outcome. As contradictory as it might sound, however, both remain largely independent issues in the course of decision making. The latter should not be a salient factor(if a factor at all) whilst deliberating the former.

It is important to note that nothing in your life transpires without your consent. There is an indubitable freedom of choice in each situation manifested. There is always a choice, we just tend to proscribe the ones that we don't quite like, ofttimes for selfish, narcissistic reasons. Regardless, the freedom of choice remains a given. 

I did have a choice... 

...and i still do. I can only pray i have the bravura and tenacity to face the ramifications that will ensue.

Timeless.

Time. What is it?

Some define it as the indefinite progress of existence and events in the past, present and future as whole. I think, however, that interpretation remains relative. Perhaps time is a man-made program from which we draw clarity. Much like an organizer, a filing system where we attempt to systematize and come up with some sort of structure amid our cluttered schedules. 

I find myself flinching at the thought of whatever meaning the word might encompass. Time. What if time wasn't expressed as it is conventionally known? What is a day, a month, a year? What is twenty four hours except an appellation for the vagaries inherent to time itself? 

The thought is somewhat daunting, a venture into the strange unknown.

Stability. Familiarity. There is a sense of certainty we all crave. Time strips us away of all that, leaving us stark naked, vulnerable... weak. But what can time do, really, except to pass? Nothing. And yet each passing moment is one that could alter our lives radically. 

Today the sky could be bright and sunny, tomorrow it might dark, grey, and stormy. One day we could be right next to someone, the next day they are gone... forever. But again, what connotation does forever hold? What is the implication of a word as such and how much meaning does it comprehend?

Time is definite. As i ponder the clock ticks steadily, a silent affirmation that the seconds go by surely even as i type. Yet in an alternate sense time is indefinite, subject entirely to human comprehension.

There is no hard truth in this world except in one's own perspective. 

And so, what is time? Timeless.

Memories.

Briefly glancing out the window, I beheld the grey, cloudy skies. My eyes flickered slightly, inspecting the now-consumed city, monumental buildings made barely visible beneath the impenetrable layer of haze. I felt an effable wave of emotion.

Was it sadness? No.

The feeling was not unfamiliar. In fact, I was strangely accustomed to it, as if I had felt it somewhere before. Then it struck me.

Nostalgia.

Almost as soon as realization dawned, images rushed through my mind, now awash with raw, fresh memories I presumed I had since disregarded. Memories that left me emotionally maimed, broken, scarred.

I swallowed, allowing my eyelids to fall gently shut as I struggled to regain composure, refusing to let bitterness deprive me of equanimity.

Because as much as I relish reveling in this negativity, I recognize that for as many repugnant memories there are beautiful ones. Lovely ones that paint an exquisite portrait, so charming and scenic it almost appears unreal. And yet it is.

I smiled.

Perhaps memories aren't nearly as vile and ghastly as we imagine them to be. Perhaps they are invaluable charms acquired with an expense of our own, designed to be esteemed, prized even. Maybe the reason why people cleave onto memories so tight, for so long, is because memories are the only things that don't change, even when people do. 

Incontrovertibly, there might be that occasional night you just break down and cry, because you know that no matter what, things will on no account be restored to its former state again.

But in life, there are a million things we do. Some we wish we hadn't done, some we wish we could put on replay another million times. In due course, however, it is irrefutable that they are what sculpt us, what shape us. If we were to reverse them, we wouldn't be who we are today.

So live life. Make mistakes. Regret. Laugh. Learn. And repeat it all over again.

The best part of memories?

Making them.

Solitude.

It's good to be alone, but sometimes i wonder if i enjoy solitude a little too much. 

I dare not claim that i don't desire company, a presence of some sort, for to a certain degree it is indubitable that we all do. Yet i find myself consciously drawing back from human interaction, hesitant. Only after much thought that do i proceed again, venturing forward with great caution, and it occurs to me that i might be afraid.

Perhaps interaction is somewhat of a sine qua non, a prerequisite to human existence itself. On what grounds, then, is there reason for fear? 

I don't know.

Maybe, just maybe... i'm afraid of losing myself. No one truly knows who you are except yourself. Because to gain social acceptance we all wear a mask, and perhaps for some, masks. Only when we are entirely alone do we tear these masks down to reveal our true selves --raw, unfeigned and without pretense. 

I have no qualms of the effectiveness of masking as a self defense mechanism, for it is a custom that i sometimes practice myself. I have recently come to new realization, however, that each time we strip this mask off, part of our skin gets torn off consequently. Yet repetition of this cycle transpires at such a precipitous pace...i cannot help but wonder if one day we would wake up to a perfectly foreign, unrecognizable face. 

I used to believe the greatest fear in life was to end up alone in this world. But to risk losing oneself in upkeeping superficial social relations. Is it not then better to remain remote (if somewhat detached) and on one's own as much as possible?  

It is with some trepidation that i entertain thoughts on a subject as such, and as i do become increasingly conscious of the fact that i am more alone than ever. Sitting on the couch in an empty house, it is a vast void, comprising nothing, just me and my thoughts. Solitude.

And sometimes, that feels pretty okay.