Serendipity

Was I born a masochist or did society make me this way?

Tag: life

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Let’s be serious, our generation never grew up. We never had to. There were no wars for us to fight, and we tried not to think too hard about the ones in faraway countries we’d never visit. It was irrelevant, it was nothing we had any control over, so why bother with upset? #War would never become trending. Don’t waste your pixels. Our understanding of starvation extends only to a delayed UberEats delivery, and we treat the mildest inconveniences like life ending catastrophe. Our lives revolve around the same first world problems and petty grievances, intermittently interrupted with the latest shiny object within our budget.

Our parents think they had it hard, or at least harder. Some become resentful, bitter that life wasn’t as kind on them as it was on us. They know it isn’t fair or right to feel this way, but that doesn’t stop them from muttering under their breath “…back in my day…”. You wish they had the decency to keep those thoughts to themselves. They don’t care what you think at all, you petulant child. They belong to the generation that believes emotional trauma builds character. They credit themselves for every achievement in your life but your failures are your own to bear. Don’t you dare burden them with disappointment.

Misery loves company only because it’s so damn lonely. I want you to understand my suffering, I have to make sure it’s equally devastating, or you won’t begin to comprehend my pain. But the world’s changing too fast for us to keep up. Round and round we go, we tell the same stories with new faces who distract from familiar, predictable conclusions. We go anyway. The devil’s in the details.

But you can’t escape the nagging feeling that you’ve drifted from the proper path. It’s like pressing the wrong key in a video game and knowing you’ll never get to the ending you wanted, that you worked so hard for. But you’ve come too far to start over, so you settle for second best. Before you know it your entire life becomes a series of second bests. You settle for less, then less, until you’re an empty shell of wasted potential. You spend the rest of your life convincing yourself that this is enough, and if you’re lucky, you’ll believe it.

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On the evening celebrating my 27th birthday, just as my friends arrived, I received a call from my father that I needed to fly home immediately. My grandmother had a fall and was in the hospital. There was nothing the doctors could do for her, she was unconscious and probably not going to wake up, but I should see her one last time before the inevitable.

I’m not sure if we ever get better equipped at dealing with death. Does it become easier as more and more of our loved ones leave us? Is “easier” the right word when we’re simply numb to the pain?

I’ve always been slow to process my emotions. Compartmentalising always came so naturally to me. I found myself dissecting the situation like an unfeeling robot, and drew the unpleasant conclusion that death may in fact be a relief for her, and the rest of us.

She was 93 and had been suffering from dementia for the past few years, her condition worsening as time went on. More recently she would call me by my cousin’s name when I came to visit. With the exception of my mother who undoubtedly loved her the most, her four living sons have spent the past decade pawning off the responsibility of taking care of her, passing her around each family in rotation so they could split the burden as much as possible, in a manner deemed tolerable to their wives.

Maybe death is harder for our atheistic generation, when we all “know” that nothing happens after. Although the older I get the harder it is to be dismissive of religion entirely. I simply know of too many individuals far more intelligent than I will ever be who have found ways to maintain faith despite evidence to the contrary, that I can’t help wonder, and however reluctantly, begrudgingly, submit to such possibilities, because to claim otherwise would be unbearably arrogant.

In the final days we took turns holding her hand, my mother calling for her with a desperation that weighed heavily on us all. We did our best to remind her she was loved, and would be dearly missed. It’s strange how death can bring people together, how goodness can sometimes be found in the middle of hell.

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Exordium

Despite our bitter dissolution, I can’t deny that he once saved me from myself, and I will always remain grateful for that brief respite of unexpected kindness.

We met under peculiar circumstances. I was lost, certain only of the fact that I must be damaged goods, and desperately searching for anything to prove otherwise. He saw me drowning and reached out a hand, for no other reason than he had been walking by. He had kindness in him once, on that day, and the days that followed, perhaps I simply used it all up.

It was only intended to be temporary, and neither of us knew what to do when we grew accustomed to waking up together in the mornings. I suppose he bit off more than he could chew, and I was still greedily clinging to him for breath. He was always a realist. I should have known then that he would cut me loose if it meant saving himself.

Falling

It was both gradual and all at once. One day we woke up and smiled at each other and that was the beginning of the end.

We were smitten, obnoxiously attached like codependent Siamese twins. It was overbearing and mildly irritating even to friends, but we were too enamoured to care. I believed him when he said “I love you”, despite all evidence to the contrary. I had been so deprived of affection that those words were enough at the time. I let my imagination fill in the gaps. I was too infatuated to see past his carefully calculated responses. He did the bare minimum to maintain us and I was all too eager to pick up the slack. 

Melancholia

My depression wasn’t the only battle, but it was enough to cripple our already fragile foundations. He convinced me to stop taking the pills and felt his own acute despair when his presence proved to not be enough.

It was the lack of purpose, the grind and pressures of university, the constant procrastination and guilt, my repugnant inability to change. There was so little hope,  and he remained the only constant. That must have been unbearable, but he never complained.

The more I believed love could save me, the more he wanted to run. He would never have admitted to it. He never wanted to be unkind.

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I can understand it now, in hindsight, how appealing she must have been. All gentle smiles and grace, an undisturbed childhood and a mother who could compliment without degradation.

I was barely enlightened enough to be in denial, only irredeemably naive.

The more I craved for him to choose me, the more repulsive my desperation appeared. It’s bitingly sardonic that the only thing that might have saved us would have been walking away, but I wasn’t strong enough then.

It wasn’t a lesson I ever wanted to learn. If you’re lucky, a blessed childhood can heal all life’s trauma. If you’re unfortunate, you’ll spend your life chasing the ghosts of your past.

 

 

 

 

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I have always thrived on chaos. I find conflict enchanting, and occasionally I would manufacture unnecessary drama for my own amusement, simply to avoid the routine. I read too many love stories while I was young and impressionable, and despite all that has happened, I remain hopelessly optimistic, unreasonably sentimental. I am too often torn between wanting to be remembered and wanting to disappear entirely. I miss the people I desperately want to forget. I think about him more than I should. I have difficulty distinguishing the difference between sensible and boring. Yet it sometimes feels I’ve managed to capture the banal despite lacking sensibility.

I am all I could ever have hoped to be and I am nothing all at once. Every day is a blessing, and every day feels like a curse, a pitiful dance. We are just children playing God, pretending not to watch the clock, pretending not to count. How many days before we turn to dust, before brittle bones can no longer hold us steady and our own bodies turn against us, until at best we surrender in comfort, surrounded by sorrow. A life well lived ends in tragedy despite, you leave behind hurt regardless of your good intentions.

I love you in ways I don’t understand. I could die for you and leave you in the same breath, if you would permit me. Too often I find myself dreaming of a different story, one where we met when I was still young and naive, foolish enough to wear my heart on my sleeve. I’d let you rip it apart if you wanted. I suspect even the destruction would taste sweet. But we are not young lovers anymore, we are older, wiser, jaded, we’ve suffered through suspect and deceit. We recognise lies and we respond accordingly, sometimes it comes so naturally we don’t even notice it. This little game, your pretty lies, your clever, thoughtful, perfectly manufactured answers, so eloquently pronounced that I can only smile and nod my approval. Darling, I love you to the moon and back, but you are not my sun.

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Sometimes I feel that you don’t love me the way I love you, or that you don’t love me as much as I love you. I know how childish that sounds, how irrational and immature it is in nature, and that it is untrue. On most days I know it is untrue. There are other days when I think maybe it is true but that it doesn’t matter. Some days I know that you can never love me more than you do now, and nothing I do could ever change that in any meaningful way.

I am bound to you the way a moth flocks to a flame, dancing and darting under the light, in flight and in joy. Your presence bears a sense of comfort and happiness I had not known before, and so with it the crippling fear, a carefully contained anxiety built from the inescapable knowledge of what I know to be true: one day you will leave me; one day I will leave you.

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Do you know what it’s like to wake up one morning and hate the life that you’ve built? A life that so many would envy, a life that some would trade in a heartbeat, a life that perhaps you never deserved to begin with.

The skillfully curated library intended to enlighten your guests to all your class and wisdom. Wallace’s Infinite Jest sprawled open on your bedside table, your chances of actually consuming it growing infinitely smaller with each passing day. No one actually reads books these days, who has the time?

The carefully selected catalog couture stashed neatly in your walk in closet. The grossly overpriced stiletto heels that only a true masochist would fathom walking in. The unethically sourced blood diamonds that satisfies the darkest parts of our selfish nature, the feeling of having won something in this trivial game, of having the upper hand in this meaningless excursion. Petty excuses for a petty existence, self serving because we no longer worship deities, we think we are Gods.

We used to know our place, back when only Emperors wore jewels and gold threaded embroidery. In this age of spin we’re led to believe that we too, can have a chance to experience life as royalty. If not for a lifetime then perhaps a month, a week, a day, an hour. A billion dollar industry designed to make you feel content with what is otherwise a mediocre existence, a mild inconvenience to this planet at best.

Have you ever woken up one morning and no longer recognised yourself? When did the fine lines sink in around your eyes? How many bottles of expensive creams in french labels will it take to erase the tiredness from your soul? When did you grow old? Did anybody notice you were gone? Will anyone notice if you don’t return? Do you fantasise about leaving it all behind? Being dramatic just for once, packing your bags without leaving a forwarding address. It used to be easier to disappear, when we didn’t have devices and accounts that tracked every movement.

I am wary of being called ungrateful, of inviting unpleasant superstitions. But I am so very tired of myself, of what I am becoming, of every day that passes and the days yet to come. I fear becoming a caricature of myself, of withholding my affections for purpose, of a love held together by mutual convenience and bitter compromise. You keep pushing me to be a better version of myself, sometimes I wonder if you ever liked who I am to begin with. I keep chasing your approval and losing myself in the process. I fear when you’re done with me, there’ll be nothing left.

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I let people affect me too much. I’m terrible at being alone. I detest crowds but loneliness consumes me. I don’t pay attention during conversations but I reminisce the past. There can be such a thing as too much reflection. I am too comfortable with myself, I make others uncomfortable. I say I love you too much, I mean it too often.

I obsess about men the way Chinaski obsessed over women. I can fall in and out of love in the space of three minutes. I can fall in love with a smile, a raised eyebrow, a sly grin, the way he runs his fingers through his hair. It’s been lucky for me, in a way, how much society has liberated women. We’re still judged, viciously sometimes, but we are free to do. Free to suffer the consequences, but no longer burned at the stake. You can be anything as long as you’re willing to pay the price.

I have paid in name, in rumours, in lost friends. I have witnessed undisguised contempt and disdain, up close and personal. I have hurt myself for redemption, but I will never have it. I can laugh away jokes about rape, violence, the darker the better. But I cannot laugh away betrayal. The moment when you realise you were alone all along, they had taken you for a ride, and now it’s time to get off, you’ve reached your destination. You’ve lost all your value, not that there was much to begin with.

It’s a crude wake up call, when you think you’ve finally reached a point of self acceptance, to find one of those closest to you still looks down on you for the very essence of who you are. Everything you represent, what you love and why you love, it’s not good enough. You’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough for them. But you know love, you have felt it. It runs through you like a river, you breathe it, you are the light. So may the bridges they burn light your way.

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I’ve been selecting the archive button on every device that shows his name. It’s always hard to say goodbye to an old friend. You worry that no one will ever understand you as well as he did, and you would be right, no one will. It was a rare combination of wanting to know you because he found you intoxicating, and a natural intimacy that drew you close in the first place.

It was the right amount of incompatible for what it eventually became, a unique bond that always hinted at a little more, we were always a little too flirtatious for our own good. He would pretend not to notice as I partied away my sanity and would use euphemisms like “you’re too exciting for me” rather than confront my self destructive behaviour. He always knew when to bow out gracefully from a losing fight.

I pretended to be bored by everything he represented and I never let him know I think I could never deserve someone as good as he was. I watch him struggle to keep his distance as if something about me could be contagious. He was so risk averse that even witnessing it made him feel uneasy. I was too young to admit I was wrong, how could I ever be wrong. I was so sure I knew how to love, I was so sure I was making myself happy. It didn’t matter if the happiness was only ever temporary, if I could collect enough blocks of temporary happiness then I could pretend I was right all along. Every mistake, every heartbreak could be erased if I could just kiss the right lips, taste the right people, forget about yesterday and live for tomorrow.

She thinks I loved him once, albeit was a long time ago. More importantly, she thinks he loved me once, and that in itself was an unforgivable betrayal. Monogamy does not believe in grey areas. We both know enough to understand that what feels good is not enough of a foundation to build a life on, and we are both too terrified of the naked truth to be with someone who sees so clearly. You need the person who sees only enough to love you, not the one who sees all and loves you despite. That sort of love burns out the moment your faults begin to outweigh your redeeming qualities and they will resent you for becoming yourself.

I know I loved him once, for a few hours when we laid in bed together and he wrapped his arms around me like I had always belonged there, and he kissed me the way I always wanted to be kissed, and he showed me what peace should look like. I knew I could hurt him then, with my carelessness, my manic episodes, my unwillingness to conform. My utter devotion coupled with my inability to be faithful would confuse and terrorize him. However passionate we could be would only be matched by the excruciating pain when he comes to realise that some fires cannot be contained, some people cannot be tamed.

 

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I’d hate for you to think I’m still writing about you. I’d hate for you to know I’m still thinking about you. I don’t know whether to call it weakness or insanity, to miss someone who has been gone for longer than they were ever around, to wish for a life that would have invited more pain and heartache than I could even imagine. The grass is always greener.

I looked you up again just to read your writings. Something I never bothered doing before because I thought your essays were boring. Now it’s the only connection I have left, your boring way with words. It was always a pleasure talking to you, and I miss that. I’m sorry I forgot that we all have our moments of weakness, I’m sorry I refused to let you have yours. In that moment you lost me. In my moment I lost you. We were never meant to be found.

I’m sorry I invited myself into your life so bizarrely and refused to leave without leaving destruction behind. I wanted to paint the walls bloody so they’d think twice before following. It was a warning to you to not cut so deep. I’m sorry it took so long for me to pick myself up. I could do it again now with all the grace you’d wished for, but it’s never easy to tear apart something you built with love. I’m still learning how to live in the relics.

I think part of me suspects that it will never again be the same. I will never again leave my heart wide open, I will never again kiss without doubt, I will never again love the way I loved you, so devastatingly certain, so sure of a happy ending. Something so intricate was broken inside the day you said goodbye, something delicate and irreparable. Now I see only farewells, be it from betrayal, time, or death, it all ends the same. But I have never been good at letting go. I am still hoping to say hello.

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I think what saddens me the most about truly desperate people is the sobering truth that there is no one left in this world who cares for them. It surpasses social hierarchies and class systems, we simply live in different realities. I know for me personally there are people who love me enough that even if I went down the wrong path, if I screwed up unimaginably, if I committed inexcusable crimes, they would still try to pull me back to my feet, until I found myself again. I know people who would give me second chances even if I didn’t deserve them, simply because they remember a time when I did. I know this because I feel the same way about them.

To know that there are people out there who don’t have this, who either never had it or no longer have it, makes my heart break a little. To imagine that it is possible to completely alienate yourself from the seven billion other inhabitants of this planet, to have wronged every person who ever trusted you until they no longer tolerated your existence in their lives, is the most depressing life I could fathom.

This does not mean I feel like I have a free pass to fuck up, to hurt others, quite the opposite. It makes me want to work harder, to be good to my people, to share my happiness with them, and put myself in a better position to help if I ever need to.

When I was little my mother used to point out those who led less fortunate lives, and forewarn me that if I didn’t study hard enough, I would end up just like them. I hope that if I ever have children of my own I could teach them to work hard because if they do, they could make life better for those people. That they can find meaning in life by making the world a more beautiful place.

It can be difficult to see past ourselves when we’re lost in the hustle and bustle of the city, when we’re busy crunching numbers and paying bills, but try not to lose sight of what is really important. To be able to share a good life with someone you love is such a blessing. To see them smile, to kiss their face, to hold them when you’re sleeping, those precious moments when the lights are out and you can hear their heartbeat. To stop chasing happiness and be happy in the present moment is a luxury not many can afford.

I see the big picture for the first time because of you. I see children, I see laughter, I see family, and I see love. I can feel it in the air when you say the words, I can lose myself in a kiss. I can imagine a life filled with joy and kindness, I am no longer terrified of boredom. I am no longer terrified of anything. Because I love you, I fucking love you.

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I did something that’s either going to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made or one of the dumbest, not that it really matters because we’re just some talking monkeys on a big rock that will one day explode and everyone will die and no one will know we ever existed. So why does life matter so much when we know how it ends? Why do we read stories about things that have never happened and never will, no matter how many alternate universes we wish there may be? Why do we pretend these rules and inventions really make a difference on the grand scale of things, when will we ever learn how to stop hurting each other?

On a grand scale we massacre our own kind and hunt other species to extinction. Even in what is considered the more civilised parts of the world we still cheat and steal and rob others of possessions and affection. We lie to each other and ourselves on a daily basis, we rape and plunder under more legal pretenses, we collect and horde wealth and we never feel like it’s enough.

Our capacity for greatness is overshadowed by the cruelty we administer upon the lesser fortunate. To those who live in parts of the planet that are savaged by warfare we simply shake our heads and pretend not to notice they drew the short straw. We believe in Gods and we hate them, we pray and we desecrate the holy, we are sinners and we worship saints with no religion.

We judge others for the same mistakes we have made or wish we could make. We take too much for granted, we forget life was never supposed to be easy. No one ever escaped this world without tears, without grief, without heartache. No one is ever doing as well as they are good at pretending. No one is really whole anymore but we don’t talk about the wounds that are still bleeding.

We are afraid when others get too close and we’re too accustomed to denial of the truth being temporary. We all think we’re meant for something greater than a tiny cubicle and paper pushing bureaucracy but none are brave enough to call for revolution. That takes patience that takes courage and most of us are too fond of television and we’d never consider ourselves couch potatoes but the world doesn’t hurt us quite enough to warrant any changing.

We are young but not so young anymore and soon we’ll be not young at all and life will have passed us by before we notice it’s a different generation calling out our mistakes. You will have children and you will sometimes regret it or you will choose to save another from the pain of living and always wonder what it might have been like and whether you’d be less lonely in your old age if a chance at being selfish hadn’t seemed so appealing.

The girl who is locked in a storage container screaming at the top of her lungs for help will be sold until her body rots and her soul is putrid. Her parents’ pleas will be lost on deaf ears or they might be the ones who profit and we shake our heads at the injustice but we don’t break the wheel. When she draws her last breath the world won’t falter, people won’t come to her star with flowers and prayers. Life goes on.

We form cute little non profit organisations and shout about the kindness we bestow upon society by caring and we set up even more for the added benefits of tax evasion. It’s enough to drive a rational person crazy. It’s enough to kill those with too much empathy, and we inevitably end up losing all those who do. The more unkind you can train yourself to be, the larger your chances for survival in this concrete jungle.

The girl who was born in a boy’s body will wonder if God made a mistake and kinder souls will tell him God never makes mistakes and this too, shall pass. There will be few who understand and even fewer who understands. There will always be stares of the wrong kind there will always be words that are unkind but you remind yourself that others did not come this far for you to be hiding.

The boy who made a mistake when he was sixteen will see 20 years of a jail cell and in the last 8 his mother stops visiting. After two he learns how to fight after four he witnesses death and by the time he walks out those doors again he’s a trained cog in the machine that never ends, we would never truly abolish slavery. We ban plants and prescribe narcotics, we discover flying and not long after we learn how to dispense weapons from the sky. Killing is much easier to ignore when the numbers are too large to comprehend and the pictures are censored for your own protection.

You want to be better than this but you’re not. You want to destroy the foundations but you’re part of the status quo. You want to take the right pills and snort the right powder so it’ll all stop hurting, but too much of that will kill you too. I tell you she kissed the poison she looked like an angel and his heart stopped beating for a second, then I watched her shatter. Don’t come any closer to this glass.

 

 

 

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I wanted to remember all the shades of the ocean, my reflection in the waters, the feel of the wind on my skin, the music that mimicked our heartbeats. I wanted the moment of absolute content to last forever.

I wanted to believe that for once, nothing was missing. But I glanced at her eyes and saw a sadness that broke the peace. I felt an emptiness seep through her that no amount of laughter or substance could appease.

She asked me what else is there to do when you’ve lost your way and the light which used to guide you home shines no longer. She told me she danced to his heartbeat and now her feet no longer touch the ground, every step feels like torture. What do you do when you find yourself alone again and you don’t remember how it happened. When memories begin to play tricks on you and you wonder if you were ever happy. When time begins to chase you and you forget who you’re running from. She whispered through crooked lips that it’s hard to smile when he’s not here to hold me. She said it hurts so bad I’m always on the verge of crying. She looked up and smiled the saddest smile I had ever seen.

What do you do when you lose your soulmate except watch your heart get broken over and over again every single day and you ache to hear his voice but you’re terrified of listening to the words you’ve saved. You wonder whether he’s in a better place but you curse every deity you know for stealing him early. You tell yourself everything happens for a reason but easy comfort isn’t comforting. You blame yourself for not knowing how to move on, and you blame him for not letting you. You feel his ghost following wherever you go, you hope he never leaves.

What can you say when the words I love you feels like a knife to your heart and every “it’ll get better” or “you’ll be okay” feels like a twist in your wound. How do you wave away empathy how do you explain that nothing makes the pain go away and you’d do anything to reverse time just to see his face again. She climbs back under the covers and clutches his old tshirt like a lifeline and I watch her bleed and bleed. I tell her darling, in time, all wounds heal. She whispers yes, but in time, all scars ache.

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Perhaps I am still waiting for an apology. Maybe some unreasonable, idealistic side of me still yearns for closure, maybe we never really ‘get over it’, no matter what we tell ourselves. Maybe you’ll always feel that familiar ache in the pit of your stomach when our song comes on, no matter how much you want to forget me. Maybe every time I think I’ve really forgotten the sound of your voice, your laugh, your lecturing monotone when you’re reading me poetry, it all comes flooding back at the most inconvenient of times, and I’m forced to retrace your footsteps back to our beginnings. Do you remember it too?

I used to blame you for being older but none the wiser. But age turns out to be a tricky thing. As children we’re told to expect steady improvement, but as an adult you very quickly discover that growth no longer comes naturally. It’s actually disturbingly effortless to remain stagnant, and society will cater to all your childish wants as long as you cry loudly enough.

The older we get the more we’re forced to accept the flaws of our predecessors, as we uncover more unsavory truths about ourselves. How imperfect, how selfish, how cruel we can be. How our own illogical stubbornness drives us to fight relentlessly until there’s nothing left to win, but still we refuse to move on. You realise your parents had no clue what they were doing, just like you have no clue now, and you start to envy them for how far they’ve come, you start to fear how much progress you still have left. You’ll search everywhere for some kind of manual only to find that you’re alone in this, and everyone else is just as terrified. Some are better than you at pretending, and you resent them for this.

So you hunt for a connection, some spark, any sign that there’s some grander purpose to your existence other than the day to day tortures of small talk and paper shuffling, and the thousand other mundane tasks that make up your seemingly meaningless life, and you pray to whatever might listen just so you can stretch out some thin hope in order to not fall apart every morning. But that emptiness inside of you that you choose to sedate with religion or drugs or whatever else works, it never goes away. And God, it’s getting harder and harder to keep living.

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If you find the world is harsh then you must be stronger. And though you may falter, you may feel the flow of hatred running through your veins, you must never lose your humanity.

Though life will change you, scar you, you must never allow it to break you, nor tarnish your soul. If there is good remaining after all this time then you must protect it.

We may be small and insignificant in this vast and terrifying universe, but we have each other. So even if every bone in your body is screaming enough, don’t ever stop being kind, you won’t regret this.

And if your existence makes the world a little less cruel then yours will have been a life well lived. And God I hope to die in those arms, my last shelter, my sweetest memory. If life must end in tragedy then let mine be a beautiful one. All I ever wanted was a little less loneliness, a little more love.

x

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I don’t know if it’s our ego getting in the way of us admitting that we don’t really know as much as we pretend to, or if we are just programmed to ignore the fact that there are no real answers in life. There is no rule book, because we’re all living for the first time.

Which makes it so bizarre that we rely on tradition to guide us when we know that everyone before us simply followed the people before them, and the same people who decided to make marriage a legal institution also thought slavery was a great idea. There are still places in this world where child brides and female genital mutilation is the norm. That’s the power of tradition. It’s so hard to put an end to what is ‘normal’.

But if we wiped the slate clean, if we didn’t look to our parents or our grandparents or their predecessors for guidance. If we didn’t view marriage and monogamy as the norm, but merely as options, and there was no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ way to be with someone, what would you want? What would make you happy?

My views on so many things in life have changed so drastically over the past few years. I used to think being pro choice was a no-brainer. Of course women should have a right to decide what to do with their own bodies! No uterus, no opinion!

But what happens when there is a body inside your body? What happens when your decision means someone else doesn’t even get to exist? We love to boast of our intelligence, and looking around at the world we’ve created, you cannot deny the genius of humanity. But what does it mean to be human? Given how little we know about consciousness, and how much we know about human development, it is very hard to argue that life doesn’t begin at conception.

Once you begin to understand that those ‘clumps of cells’ the size of a kidney bean is the perfect possibility of a human being, it is very hard to argue that abortion is not the destruction of life. I understand there are children born into poverty, born into war zones, born into families that never wanted them, and we start to believe that abortion is the better option. But when did death become better than suffering, and who are we to decide that only a comfortable life is worth living? Life is not meant to be perfect, life is meant to be lived. What a pity that humanity loves to kill, but will not plead guilty to murder. Yes, they are only cells. But wait, what are you made of again?