Contemplating on life
I know you may not believe it, but I have come to see reading as an efficient way of slowly killing yourself. Steadily inching towards death, one word at a time, and most of the time you may not realize it because you're on a cloud, a sort of melody in a low hum, making your heart beat faster as sweet words dance around, mere centimetres from the tips of your fingers. The warmth of the sentiments they bring carefully push your feet off the ground to get you to a high. A high that's almost impossible to achieve without a book to your face, the smell of the pages intoxicating you and drawing you in, making it almost impossible to close it and put it down, almost impossible to escape.
But words, no matter how sweet, leave a bitter aftertaste that, when you come crashing down to reality, never leaves; like that stale taste of your dry mouth when you wake in the morning. Or when you suck on a cut on your finger and taste the blood, a rusty, metallic taste that doesn’t leave after a while.
And then there’s love. What do we know about love? What do we know about something that is obviously bigger than ourselves? What do we know about something that makes us stop our ordinary lives and give ourselves completely to someone who will probably always be a stranger to us, no matter the years of friendship? Really, what do you know about love?
You cannot write what love is. You can never do that. Love always has an analogy. Love can never be expressed in straightforward, artistic terms. Never, never will anyone be able to write love as what it truly is, compared to what it can be.
But people try, of course. People never stop trying.
Therein resides the mistake.
We read about love, about two people who can and will die for each other-and about some who already have-about two souls that will forever be connected and will withstand the test of time and space and every obstacle you throw at them will just be thwarted by their love, and they will stand by their so-called ‘soul mate.’ And, you see, this is beautiful. All the sacrifice and love and everything in between is what makes them beautiful as a whole, how one complements the other, how the other completes one.
All of this is put into words, the sheer perfection of this kind of beauty and we find ourselves smiling, happy, hoping for this kind of thing to happen to us.
That’s where we start dying.
We start comparing. No matter what anyone says, we start comparing. You do not realize that you are-nobody ever does. You just do. You notice little things that should be this way, that should be that way, that should’ve been done this way, that should’ve been done that way.
You read and you read and your read and every page brings you closer to a heaven, every page is a step towards it. Every word is embedded into your brain and you think, “this is beauty,” but are unaware of the pain that this will cause you.
No one really knows what love is. But everyone always insists they do.
These words in books that you read are perfect beyond understanding because you cannot grasp it. We see love as a general idea, but love is different for everyone. Love can never be the same between you and him, you and her, him and her, him and them, them and her, and everyone else in between.
But humans, as beautifully imperfect as they are, commit the same mistake. They put love into words, trying to say what can never be said, never be understood by someone who is outside this special bond between people different from themselves. They try and they try and they try and sometimes cry over their failure over something they aren’t even supposed to be trying to say. Love is felt, not read, not said, not anything that can be comprehended by someone who isn’t in it.
I’m falling into that human mistake. Trying to figure out love.
What do I know about love, really? All I know about love, in general, is the words I read in books, the images I see in movies, the lyrics dancing amongst the music notes that come from the speakers attached to my iPod. All I know about familial love is that I have felt it and maybe that’s as far as it goes.
I wouldn’t know anything about romantic love. How could I? Every love is different. You cannot determine the amount of love because of the abundance of roses and kisses and sweet words. Every hug and every kiss doesn’t make it necessarily clear to anyone what love is. Maybe that feeling that makes your heart soar is as good as it gets. Maybe it gets better.
Like I said, I wouldn’t know.
But I don’t think that I’ll truly understand love. My mind is corrupted, with these words that I read about love and it just looks so perfect-untouchable, even. How can anything in reality ever compare to your imagination? These words I have read that describe love will probably always be there, lingering, unconsciously stepping up to compare everything in reality to what I have seen in words and punctuation marks. That feeling I get when I read about his love for her and how he would protect her, how he would cherish her-I’d probably look for that. And if I can’t find it, then I probably won’t be happy.
And that would go on, one failed attempt after another, searching and searching and searching even though I know deep in my heart I would never be contented. In this way I will always be left with a frown on my face, unsatisfied. I would live through the rest of my life, discontented, one way or another. I would search and search but it would inevitably be useless, because I would just be setting myself up for disappointment but I wouldn’t stop looking, because there’s that annoying hope, that nagging feeling that encourages me to go on.
Maybe fifty or sixty years down the road, I’d regret searching for so long because it would end up tearing me from the inside out. Maybe I’d kill myself because of everything I’ve ever wasted. Or maybe I’ve found exactly what I was looking for by then. What that is, I wouldn’t know until I have that in the palm of my hands, in the very core of my being.
Maybe then I’ll have something to compare to the sweet words printed out on paper.
But that’s then. And a huge maybe.
Thoughts for the day. No offense intended. Also, I'm not sure with the spelling and grammar so if there's something wrong, just let me know.
But words, no matter how sweet, leave a bitter aftertaste that, when you come crashing down to reality, never leaves; like that stale taste of your dry mouth when you wake in the morning. Or when you suck on a cut on your finger and taste the blood, a rusty, metallic taste that doesn’t leave after a while.
And then there’s love. What do we know about love? What do we know about something that is obviously bigger than ourselves? What do we know about something that makes us stop our ordinary lives and give ourselves completely to someone who will probably always be a stranger to us, no matter the years of friendship? Really, what do you know about love?
You cannot write what love is. You can never do that. Love always has an analogy. Love can never be expressed in straightforward, artistic terms. Never, never will anyone be able to write love as what it truly is, compared to what it can be.
But people try, of course. People never stop trying.
Therein resides the mistake.
We read about love, about two people who can and will die for each other-and about some who already have-about two souls that will forever be connected and will withstand the test of time and space and every obstacle you throw at them will just be thwarted by their love, and they will stand by their so-called ‘soul mate.’ And, you see, this is beautiful. All the sacrifice and love and everything in between is what makes them beautiful as a whole, how one complements the other, how the other completes one.
All of this is put into words, the sheer perfection of this kind of beauty and we find ourselves smiling, happy, hoping for this kind of thing to happen to us.
That’s where we start dying.
We start comparing. No matter what anyone says, we start comparing. You do not realize that you are-nobody ever does. You just do. You notice little things that should be this way, that should be that way, that should’ve been done this way, that should’ve been done that way.
You read and you read and your read and every page brings you closer to a heaven, every page is a step towards it. Every word is embedded into your brain and you think, “this is beauty,” but are unaware of the pain that this will cause you.
No one really knows what love is. But everyone always insists they do.
These words in books that you read are perfect beyond understanding because you cannot grasp it. We see love as a general idea, but love is different for everyone. Love can never be the same between you and him, you and her, him and her, him and them, them and her, and everyone else in between.
But humans, as beautifully imperfect as they are, commit the same mistake. They put love into words, trying to say what can never be said, never be understood by someone who is outside this special bond between people different from themselves. They try and they try and they try and sometimes cry over their failure over something they aren’t even supposed to be trying to say. Love is felt, not read, not said, not anything that can be comprehended by someone who isn’t in it.
I’m falling into that human mistake. Trying to figure out love.
What do I know about love, really? All I know about love, in general, is the words I read in books, the images I see in movies, the lyrics dancing amongst the music notes that come from the speakers attached to my iPod. All I know about familial love is that I have felt it and maybe that’s as far as it goes.
I wouldn’t know anything about romantic love. How could I? Every love is different. You cannot determine the amount of love because of the abundance of roses and kisses and sweet words. Every hug and every kiss doesn’t make it necessarily clear to anyone what love is. Maybe that feeling that makes your heart soar is as good as it gets. Maybe it gets better.
Like I said, I wouldn’t know.
But I don’t think that I’ll truly understand love. My mind is corrupted, with these words that I read about love and it just looks so perfect-untouchable, even. How can anything in reality ever compare to your imagination? These words I have read that describe love will probably always be there, lingering, unconsciously stepping up to compare everything in reality to what I have seen in words and punctuation marks. That feeling I get when I read about his love for her and how he would protect her, how he would cherish her-I’d probably look for that. And if I can’t find it, then I probably won’t be happy.
And that would go on, one failed attempt after another, searching and searching and searching even though I know deep in my heart I would never be contented. In this way I will always be left with a frown on my face, unsatisfied. I would live through the rest of my life, discontented, one way or another. I would search and search but it would inevitably be useless, because I would just be setting myself up for disappointment but I wouldn’t stop looking, because there’s that annoying hope, that nagging feeling that encourages me to go on.
Maybe fifty or sixty years down the road, I’d regret searching for so long because it would end up tearing me from the inside out. Maybe I’d kill myself because of everything I’ve ever wasted. Or maybe I’ve found exactly what I was looking for by then. What that is, I wouldn’t know until I have that in the palm of my hands, in the very core of my being.
Maybe then I’ll have something to compare to the sweet words printed out on paper.
But that’s then. And a huge maybe.
Thoughts for the day. No offense intended. Also, I'm not sure with the spelling and grammar so if there's something wrong, just let me know.