On Human Possibility

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I’ve always been enamoured with the art of the story. We are not so different, you and me. He and she. We are not so interesting. if Gen Z is the generation of pride, materialism, and vanity; then Millennials are forever known as the generation of individualism and self-centeredness.

We try so intently to weave a story about why our lives are meaningful. The art of the pretend. I peer through the world through the windows of these two black beady eyes, and believe beauty is nothing but what they tell us. The red rose; the cascading waterfall; the pond frozen through during wintertime; the tousled blonde curls. Our desires and our thoughts are shaped by these. Our hunger is motivated by the mind and it can be easily quelled and swayed by the movements of the moon. We’re so imbued with every waking distraction that tender moments aren’t something to hold onto, they’re moments quickly lost, moments forgotten. We’re impressionable by things that are unimportant, silly. To be vulnerable and surrender to the sweetness of these emotions - thinking we feel love so deeply - the very next day led astray with tears welling up in those same black eyes. And sadness is a tear falling down dry cheeks, staining them with the stories of yesterday and the hurt and pang in your heart, squeezing your chest tightly and with newfound aggression, as the numbness hits your hands. You drink, you forget. You drink to forget. We chase beauty and glory, chase the things that we think that were meant to be, things we deserve. Love and grace. In finding meaning, we sometimes find darkness. But in this bleakness, there is also a shared comfort in knowing that most of these lived and learned experiences are things that everyone feels.

Are we inherently good? Born with angel wings that wither and stick out in odd angles with each fall from grace. Bent and weathered by poorly made decisions, hurting the heart of another. Feeling like there isn’t a God in this world, there musn’t be - with a world that gives credence to so much evil. Or is the presence of evil only here to show you that the ‘good’ truly exists? I want to give it my all. To be good and to do the honourable work. Not everyone wants to be good. But to truly want to be good and know that you sincerely are - with all the self-awareness but not an ounce of self-righteousness, this is different. This is what we were made for, I think. But I don’t know. If I laid myself to pursue this path of pure divinity, I wouldn’t be here.

I’m not hungry anymore. I’m subdued by my sudden sadness and my illness of being compelled to things I know I shouldn’t be. My flippant heart. I’ve always wanted what I shouldn’t; what I can’t have; and also, what I know is wrong for me. As I recognize this, I get the sore fuzzy feeling. The tingling in my fingertips that signal to me that it’s not just a light-hearted reflection of overly gratuitous pity; it’s something I need to address. Everything crashes at once and you feel like you’re maybe not meant for this. You’ve been too strong all your life and it’s not enough this time. You always need to risk it, to take a big leap of faith, to see the reward. It’s always been like this. Some people can sacrifice less, the risk is contained. It’s just another day at the races. Yet why do I feel this way when it happens to me? I reply to the email. My real thoughts are stifled. I’m disconnected and I think they know. They think they’ve got me. They might be right. Maybe this is all they’ll feed me this month, so I empty my bowl.

Make a change and fly away. The wings may be bruised, but they still fly. And the heart is heavy, it sinks down to the stomach. Fear of the unknown, fear that it’s wrong. Fear is heavy too, it weighs down the heart. But not heavy enough to lift off.

Then we see beauty; in the darkness, and the haziness of the overcast future. There is something there very lush and teeming with life and promise. You don’t know, but it’s something to hold onto. It rocks you back and forth and it ties your brain into knots, preventing you from sleeping at night. Wired. You bore your heart into a hole but you didn’t get anything back, and then the sourness hits again. I am writing but I’m writing in loops. It’s a cyclical dance of up and down; high and low. I wonder what kind of person I would be if I instead valued consistency, a quiescent flow of unwavering mediocrity. Just the normality of it all. But I tell myself I’m not. I chase after dreams and improbability, hoping to string together intricate stories that can give force to the things we love and hate. Beauty goes hand in hand with pain; it’s the itch on my head that can never be scratched. And I am not the one who doesn’t give; or the one who always takes. I thread this story for me and me only. We’re all forging our own stories; sometimes they intertwine. Perspectives and thoughts beholden to the darkest corners of our conscience and memory. Can be so easily cast aside with a snide remark or a tonal inflection of, “this doesn’t matter”. None of this matters. But it does. What matters is you. And me. To indulge in this desire and love to be human and real means suffering.

We are but soldiers, playing a game of chance and dignity with our emotions. Battling onwards so we can find and solidify our home. Where we can seek comfort and feel safe. Is life beautiful? Do we go through the motions just to survive? We are just here simply to survive sometimes. Survival is beautiful. It means that, sometimes, what you seek may be invalidated. You will be forgotten. Your temperament changes. We are not that special. Life is not linear, yet it all ends the same way. We don’t want to admit this. That our mark on the world is marked by impermanence. A father to some, a friend to another, an asshole at work. You are a child to a free spirit, a ball of fury and precociousness, and a wise sage in your last final years. This washes away. And with a heavy heart, I sign off.